


You Better Start Swimming

by AlexLKerr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Affection, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Big Brothers, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Child Abuse, Comfort, Confessions, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Fear, Gen, Guilt, Hospitals, Hugs, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kidnapping, Little Brothers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Drama, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Shame, Sibling Love, Siblings, Spells & Enchantments, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Teenage Winchesters, Teenagers, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexLKerr/pseuds/AlexLKerr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is kidnapped for a month by a teacher who knows about the demon blood inside Sam. Sam and Dean struggle to stay afloat -and stick together- after the trauma. Anachronistic chapters, but still very easy to follow. Sam is 12, Dean 16/17. Warning: dark themes, see writer's notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 22, 1996

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit to lyric from Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are A-Changin'"

The Impala pulled up into the small, dreary parking lot of the nearby minimart. It was a chilly day with surprisingly biting cold winds. Dean shifted into park and pulled the keys out from the wheel base. He pocketed them as he leaned across the passenger seat, coming quite close to Sam, and unlocked the door manually. He then stepped out of the car, flipped his collar, and huffed out an exaggerated reaction to the cold. He moved around the front to the passenger door and opened it.

Dean didn't look down or into the passenger seat. He just absentmindedly wrenched it wide open and stood in the space, holding his hand out and looking up at the market's plastered food sales. He squinted up at one.

"Hey. Mini-sausages are only 5 dollars a pack right now," he said, impressed.

Meanwhile, Sam was sitting in the passenger seat, looking at Dean's hand outstretched to him with a glazed look on his face.

Dean didn't move to peak under the roof to get a look at his brother. He just looked down at his own hand and, after a beat, shook it. Like a prompt. One more beat. Dean was surprisingly patient. Shake.

Grip.

Dean felt his little brother's tentative grasp around his hand and he tightened his grip reassuringly. Sam stepped out of the car. He looked haggard; pale and lost… Skinny, short (if Dean could believe it), and… Small.

Still holding hands, they walked into the grocery store together. Dean couldn't have cared less.

The two of them walked down the aisles, Dean pushing the cart with one hand, holding Sam's hand with the other. It wasn't weird, either. When Dean had to pull the cart out in the beginning, Sam was fine to be let go for a second. As soon as the cart was settled and aimed down the right aisle, Sam was back at his side, and their hands came back together like magnets. Dean didn't think about who reached for who first; there didn't seem to be an answer.

The terrible oldies station aired and echoed through the store - it sounded like someone had pressed the PA button and pushed the mic up to the easy listening radio. The floors were clean, though, and there were a decent number of people around. It was five o'clock; people were getting off work (off school) and picking up a few snacks and groceries before they headed home.

Sam stayed close to his brother, but looked, for all intents and purposes, as though he was simply walking near him. It was actually quite difficult to notice that they were holding hands. Sam was very, very careful not to bump into others. He often made sure to have space to maneuver within the radius he'd established around Dean.

Dean took it in stride, too. He never called attention to it, never catered to it and never discouraged it. He was always calm and casual, relaxed. It didn't necessarily mean that this was how Dean actually felt, but how Dean felt was the least relevant thing Dean could think of to, well, think of.

When they had first started grocery shopping like this, Dean would knock into Sam sometimes, but he'd never complain about Sam's insistence to be so close to him. Instead, surprisingly, he'd gently press Sam's hand in apology. After a couple times, they had worked out a system where Dean would indicate where he was going to move by gesturing slightly with the hand he used to hold Sam's. Sam would feel and move accordingly, and they'd get their grocery shopping done seamlessly (if not a little longer; Sam was obviously not in the way to tag-team a grocery list).

Everything had been picked up – deli, cereal, a couple frozen pizzas, mac & cheese, those noodles shaped like letters (Sam loved those), among a few other odds and ends (Dean's giant bag of M&Ms). Dean had rolled the cart to wait in line – there were only two cashiers at the moment and about a dozen people waiting in line. Dean stared into the distance absentmindedly, tapping his foot and unconsciously tapping Sam's hand with his thumb to the beat of the oldies song. A woman in front of them had just reached for a newspaper and started to read it. The cashier was ringing through a man's groceries with the conveyor belt moving. The bell ding-ed at the door and a woman walked in with her toddler. Two people five feet behind Sam and Dean met each other.

"Don?"

"Sam! How are you?" The two men greeted each other. At the sound of Sam's name uttered by a stranger, Sam increased his pressure on Dean's hand a little bit. On autopilot, Dean squeezed back while looking over casually, then turning back to stare up at the massive New Years decorations that had been reduced after the holidays.

"Sam look up, look at that…" Dean commented, smiling wryly. "You think we should get some of that stuff? Throw some glitter at Dad when he gets home?" Dean laughed at his own joke, imagining their father's reaction.

The till rang out in front of them. A man in his late twenties came up behind them to stand in line as he talked matter-of-factly on a cell phone. An infant started crying somewhere off in the back of the store. The intercom music turned off for a second: someone must've lifted the telephone book off the mic's button. Sam bowed further into Dean. It was an imperceptible move; Dean stepped to angle himself more towards Sam.

Suddenly something shattered in the back and the infant started to cry loudly, shocked and alarmed by the sound. Dean saw Sam flinch.

"Sam-?"

Sam released his grip from Dean and backed up a couple of steps. Dean watched, then moved hesitantly towards his brother to bring him back in line.

"Sam c'mon," Dean whispered, reaching for Sam's hand. Sam flinched away, slapping Dean's hand.

"No, don't…" Sam whispered. He was staring at the floor, his hands in the air almost covering his ears.

"Sam… Sam!" Dean whispered to Sam, leaning towards him. Dean didn't move from behind his cart in line; didn't approach Sam. He saw Sam's hands start to shake.

"Sam-" Dean extended his hand out to Sam again gently.

"N-NO!" Sam suddenly yelled back, swatting Dean's hand away again and backing up in fear, smacking against the sunglasses display. The entire display crashed behind him and Sam jumped and turned around looking at it.

Dean watched, struck by the sudden onset of Sam's behavior, but quickly composed himself. Dean turned around and looked at the guy on the phone, watching Sam in surprise. Dean turned back to Sam, whose eyes were wide as he realized everyone in both lines were watching him. Sam backed up, trembling, his breath starting to come in gasps until he saw a dark figure coming towards him.

"S-stay away NO! No! Don't-! Please!" Sam fell over as the figure came up to him. All of a sudden, the figure disappeared from view again and Sam was left on the floor of the grocery store. Everything felt like it was spinning and Sam felt like he couldn't breathe. Like he was suffocating.

At Sam's pleading when he approached, Dean reconsidered his strategy as his heart started to tear apart. Seeing Sam in the haze of fear on the floor of a grocery store was alarming… Scary. But he had to take care of it.

"Sam hold on… Hold on Sam," Dean ordered to his shaking brother. Sam backed up slowly in shock and fear as Dean swiveled around and noticed every single concerned adult waiting in line at the grocers' looking straight at him. He ignored it and took the cart and wheeled it to the side of an aisle three feet away.

"Hey, dude, s'he okay?" The guy behind him asked Dean loudly, voicing the expressions worn on the crowd watching Sam's display. Dean walked past the guy, making a beeline to his brother.

"Yeah he's fine," Dean replied gruffly, in an undertone.

Sam was staring at something in the distance in horror, still on the floor. Dean reached Sam's line of sight again and Sam's expression turned into grotesque fear. Undeterred and faster than Sam's frantic backwards crab-crawl to get away from him, Dean gripped one arm under Sam's thighs and the other around his back.

"NO!" Sam screamed in severe panic, ringing the eardrums of every patron watching. He started to cry and scream nonverbal sounds, trying to wrench himself out of Dean's grasp. Dean held him tightly and within a split second of grasping him, he'd lifted him up and kicked open the grocery store door into the freezing weather outside.

"NO PLEASE I CAN'T-"

The door slammed shut by the force of the wind, but the patrons inside still heard Sam's screams coming from outside. Most of them kept watching through the glass windows. Quite a few of them had their hands on their hearts and mouths in surprise and anxiety.

"DON'T DO THIS STOP PLEASE!" Sam screamed directly into Dean's ear as Dean held him tight. He walked out into the parking lot and stopped right next to the Impala, not sure whether to put Sam into the car or not. It was freezing cold out, but he didn't want to jar Sam any more than he already had. He just knew he had to get Sam out and away from onlookers.

"Sammy, Sammy you're with me, Sam. Dean. I'm Dean," Dean tried whispering as he held him, rocking him.

"NO NO YOU I CAN'T DO IT I'M SORRY!"

Dean's eyes glanced over through the glass of the grocery store.  _So much for no onlookers._  Dean gave them his best death glare from where he was standing, holding his 11 year old brother across him in the freezing January weather.

"I'LL BE GOOD I PROMISE I SWEAR IT!" Sam screamed and sobbed. Dean clutched him tighter, never getting used to how unnerving Sam's words were. Dean closed his eyes, pained to have to hear this.

"No, Sam.  _I'm_ sorry. Sam. Sam it's Dean. I'm the one holding you. You're safe, Sammy. You're safe with me," Dean kept repeating to his traumatized brother.

"Noo noo please," Sam cried, lowering the volume. Dean kept rocking him.

"It's Dean. Sam, it's me. We were at the grocery store. We're safe. You're safe. You're with me, okay?" Dean reassured, trying to get through to his sobbing brother, now hanging limp in his arms and trembling. After a few minutes, Dean set him on top of the Impala and simply held his waist. Slowly, Sam started to recover.

"Breathe, breathe for me. That's good. Good," Dean coached and Sam looked at him. For a second, Dean saw recognition, but suddenly his eyes glazed again, then lit up in anger.

In the blink of an eye, Sam shot out a  _perfect_  right hook at Dean. If Dean hadn't seen it in Sam's eyes, he would have only seen out of one eye for the rest of the week. As it was, Dean deftly angled out from it and snatched Sam's wrist out of the air.

"Okay! Time to go in the car!" Dean said out loud to himself somewhat humorously as he held Sam's wrist and used his keys to open the back door of the Impala. Before Sam could really make another move against his brother, Dean maneuvered Sam's wrist to around his neck and picked his brother up again. Just as anticipated, Sam started screaming again as Dean grabbed him.

"PLEASE STOP NO!" Sam yelled. Dean scooped him, one hand under his knees, the other holding his back.

"Sam… Sam stop struggling. Sam it's okay, it's okay," Dean kept saying as he inched into the back seat.

"I'M SORRY!"

"Shh.. Shh Sam do you see where we are?" Dean prompted as he held his brother in the backseat. He framed Sam's face with his hand gently. "Look around, Sam, where are we?" Dean pressed. He watched his little brother go through what seemed like layers of reality in order to finally get to his answer.

"The… The… Im-" Sam staggered.

"The Impala, right, Sam." Dean looked into Sam's eyes, smiling genuinely. Sam finished looking around the Impala and stared right back up at Dean, eyes wide. "You back with me?" Dean asked, his hand pressing into Sam's chest, then other carding fingers through Sam's hair. Sam sniffed and gave a shaky nod. "Yeah?" Dean pushed Sam.

"Yeah Dean," Sam whispered. "Sorry," he finished, slowly lifting himself up out of Dean's lap and wiping his tears away. He faced away from his brother, now that he was sitting up and facing the window.

"What set you off?" Dean asked quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. Sam shrugged, ashamed, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"I don't know," he grumbled, feeling worthless. How is he supposed to stop flashbacks if he doesn't know what starts them?

"Do you need your inhaler?"

Sam shook his head, feeling worse. He thought about the flashback, the scene he must've made in the grocery store. What a pathetic piece of work he really was...

Dean watched Sam's body language in the back seat. It wasn't difficult to tell that Sam was feeling terrible – ashamed. Dean saw Sam's shoulders curl in even further than they normally do and shudder.

"Sam- hey… Sam…" Dean reached for one of Sam's shoulders as he moved closer until they were right next to each other. "Sam-" Dean didn't make an effort to look at Sam's face as he pulled his brother into him a little bit; Sam turned into the hug. "Don't be upset about this stuff, Sam.  _I'm_  not embarrassed, okay? So you shouldn't be. Relax," Dean reasoned out loud as he felt Sam working on controlling his breathing against his chest. Dean bit his lip in anticipation of the next question he asked. "What did you see?"

…

About ten minutes later, the patrons of the local minimart saw the two kids get out of the car and walk back across the blustering winds. The bell rang out, snapping them all back to their normal activities even though they had been watching the boys approach, holding hands. A few of them were able to steal a few looks at the little one – his eyes were red, and he looked tired. But he looked okay. The older one looked weary, downcast, as he moved to grab the cart and get back into line. The man with the cell phone that had been behind them was now almost about to get his groceries onto the conveyor belt, but offered for them to go ahead of him. The two of them gave him small smiles.

"Thanks, man," the older one said, and the man smiled sympathetically. The boys calmly stacked their small number of groceries onto the belt and the older one paid.

The cashier was an older women in her 60s that wore reading glasses halfway past her nose. She smiled at the two of them.

"You boys all right?" She asked with a maternal tone. Dean looked at her in surprise, then something akin to gratitude.

"Yeah we're good, thanks," he replied with a forced smile.

"Good," she replied, giving the small one a wink. The smaller one tried to reciprocate with a smile.

"Thanks," he murmured, as the groceries were bagged and handed to them.

Dean held the door open for Sam as they left, keeping a gently resting palm against Sam's back as they walked back to the car again.


	2. December 8th, 1995

1 month, 2 weeks Earlier...

"No, Sam, you didn't do anything," Dean replied, exasperated, to his eleven year old brother as he set down his backpack into the chair to the left of the motel room's door frame.

"But Dean it's only four. Why'd we have to go home? I was having a good time…"

"I know, Sam, I'm sorry. I just… Just wanted to cut it short today," Dean trailed off, preoccupied, as he grabbed his towel from his duffel and walked into the bathroom.

"Dean- are you okay?" Sam asked after a beat, watching his brother.

"What? Yeah. Yeah I'm fine, Sam," Dean replied with an easy smile. "M'a take a shower. Start on your homework and when I'm ready we'll head over, 'kay?"

"Okay," Sam replied casually, leaning back against the bed to reach for his backpack.

"Okay," Dean murmured as he shut the door.

Dean turned around in the small, bare motel bathroom and stared into the mirror. He sighed and shook his head, inwardly convincing himself that he was overreacting.

…

"So then… Dean!"

"What? What? I'm listening…"

"Okay so then Rob and I just decided to do the project using…"

But Dean had already zoned out again while they walked down the aisles. Dean didn't have a list; he didn't really need one, he was so used to grocery shopping by now. He just scanned the racks and found the staples as Sam babbled on.

It wasn't that he didn't care; he was half-listening, and he liked the flow of his brother's voice as he shared his day. It made Dean feel secure, sure that Sam was doing well in school, with his friends, just in general. Dean appreciated it tremendously, especially after the past few days.

"So, Rob and you are getting along, huh?"

"Yeah you met him at the playground earlier today."

"I did?"

"Yeah he's the kid that wore that sweatshirt that was way too big on him," Sam clarified, trying to jog Dean's memory. Dean was way past him, though, and Sam was surprised to see his brother's quite serious, almost angry, expression as he scanned the labels of milk and eventually pulled out the right brand from the refrigerator. "Dean-"

"The little guy?" Dean asked, and stopped, turning to look at Sam with a less intense expression: innocent curiosity, but serious nonetheless.

"Uh, yeah, well. We're all little to you, right?"

"Yeah but he was like little little, right?"

Sam shrugged, confused by Dean's description.

"He's smaller than me," Sam offered. Dean grinned and ruffled Sam's hair as he moved past him.

"Yeah and you're a runt," Dean joked. Sam turned around and followed Dean.

"I'm  _eleven_ , Dean. We're all runts to you," Sam replied bitterly, even though he was smiling.

"That's right," Dean confirmed absentmindedly. He swiveled around to Sam.

"Can you go pick up the cold slices at the butcher's? Should be ready by now," Dean asked.

"Yup," Sam grunted as he turned around and walked confidently back to the deli section. Dean looked after his little brother, worried. He couldn't shake it.

…

Sam walked up to the deli section, his eyes catching the guy behind the counter.

"Hey my brother ordered-"

"Yeah-" The guy said, turning around to look over at another guy behind the meat-slicer. The guy nodded and held up two fingers. "Two minutes, kid," the guy finished, looking at Sam.

"Okay thanks," Sam replied lightly, and decided to stare at the meat selection.

"Sam?" A voice spoke up right next to him and Sam flinched, surprised. Then he broke into a relaxed smile.

"Hey Mr. Rennolds, what's up?"

Sam was looking up at a bespectacled man in his mid-to-late 30s, smiling jovially back at him. He wore his usual slacks and oxford button-up which he habitually rolled up at the sleeves, as if he was always ready to manually dig into something even though he was an English teacher. He was Sam's English teacher at the middle school they had just enrolled in about two days ago.

"Not much what's up with you?" Rennolds replied, amused to have come across his student outside of school.

"M'brother and I are picking up groceries," Sam answered, gesturing at the meat-slicer.

"Ah and your brother is-?"

"Um I don't know he back over there somewhere," Sam answered again, gesturing to the other side of the grocery store. He looked back to Rennolds. "He's in high school, so you wouldn't know him," Sam supplied.

"Oh so you're the baby of the family, huh?" Rennolds said knowingly. Sam grimaced at this statement.

"I don't really like to be-"

"It's okay. I have a younger sibling, too, and they hate it when I call them babies, too," Rennolds added, chuckling. Sam didn't get it, but he went with it.

"Eh, yeah, heh heh," he said, rubbing his neck self-consciously.

"So, Sam-" Rennolds started, leaning into Sam's personal space. Sam gave a confused expression to the floor as he backed up a step and made an effort to look back up at Rennolds with an open, friendly appearance. "- I was hoping that at some point-" Then someone coughed.

"Kid, your order," the butcher grumbled loudly, snapping Sam out of what Rennolds was saying. He saw the guy slap the price sticker with the tag on it.

"Thanks," Sam said loudly. He looked back and forth between Rennolds and the butcher for a second. Rennolds looked like he was willing to wait for Sam to grab the order before he continued.

The butcher handed the plastic-wrapped order of salami, roast beef, ham, and turkey slices over the counter. Just as Sam was about to reach for it, yet another person had come up from behind him, brushing his back slightly, and exactly between Rennolds and Sam. For a second Sam was a little annoyed, but then instantly realized it was Dean at the sight and smell of the leather jacket.

"Thanks, man," Dean said as he grabbed the pack of meat and turned to look straight at Sam.

"Dea-"

"'Kay, Sammy, you ready? I got everything else," Dean spoke out seriously. Sam was totally confused: didn't he realize he was being totally rude to Mr. Rennolds?

"Uh, Dean, I want you to meet Mr. Rennolds," Sam stuttered out as he gestured to get Dean to turn around and notice the man that was literally inches away from his back. Sam was even further confused by Dean's pursed lips as he listened to his brother's words and eventually turned around.

"Ah! Hey sorry I didn't see you there," Dean laughed good-naturedly to the man behind him once he'd turned around. Sam couldn't help but give his brother the most obnoxious 'what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-you' face he could muster. Dean caught it and flew right by it; completely, _willfully_  oblivious.

Mr. Rennolds, though, took Dean in stride and gave a great smile back.

"Oh it's no problem. I'm Mr. Rennolds, Sam's English teacher at Wilbourne," he introduced himself politely.

"Oh cool. Okay. So how's Sam doing?"

"Dean-"

Mr. Rennolds laughed.

"Well, he's only been in my class for two days, sooo… He's doing great," Rennolds replied with good humor.

"Great great. Yeah it'll be good to hear from Sammy about you, now, too." Dean's eyes crinkled and lips upturned with a smile. Sam glanced at his brother, then gave a double-take as he realized Dean's smile was not in his eyes. The smile wasn't real. But Dean just nodded casually, with that fake smile on his face. Rennolds returned it, but Sam didn't think his was fake. "I'll be able ta-" Dean squinted and leaned into Rennold's space a little bit; Rennolds didn't back away, "put a face to a name now." Dean gestured with his hand in front of Rennolds – the act of catching something and gripping it. Rennolds just kept smiling, and now Sam was thinking this was so weird. Dean moved away from Rennold's space and placed his hand on Sam's back, which Sam actively slapped away, irritated by this whole weird exchange.

"Good meeting you," Dean said, completely cheerfully.

"Yeah you too! Bye Sam!"

"Bye Mr. Rennolds!" Sam called out as he was being led by his brother over to the cashier.

Dean placed his hand on Sam's back again as they walked, and Sam slapped it away again.

"Dean what the hell  _was_  that? Why-"

"Sammy shut up," Dean whispered vehemently, in  _that_  voice. Sam stopped talking, and nearly stopped walking in surprise but for Dean's hand against his back pushing him forward gently.

…

"Okay. So what's the deal?" Sam asked seriously, dying to know what was up with what happened. Sam had given it a good think and had kind of connected the dots… But he needed to hear it from his brother because it was just too crazy. "You couldn't possibly think that Mr. Rennolds is like… Bad… Do you?"

Dean grimaced at this while they were putting away the food in the fridge and cupboards.

"No. I don't know," Dean mumbled.

"Wait,  _really?_ " Sam pushed, totally surprised that he had been on the money.

"Yeah I just get this weird vibe from him. He was at the playground before, too, earlier."

"Yeah but Dean. That's because he's the playground chaperone after school before kids get picked up."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Seriously he's a really cool guy."

Dean shrugged as he put the cereal into a cupboard.

"Okay sorry," Dean replied as if it was nothing. Sam was still kind of gaping at his brother, but he felt better now that he'd put Dean at ease.

"Really it's not… There's nothing you should worry about. He's cool," Sam repeated. Dean just nodded.

"Okay. Hey," Dean looked at Sam and smiled, "That's what I like to hear."

Sam smiled, too, this time.

"So is that the reason we called it quits so early this afternoon?" Sam pressed.

"Yyyeah maybe. A little bit," Dean muttered, thinking over whether he should actually be telling this to Sam.

"Gees, Dean, I could've told you about him  _there_  if you were thinking  _that_ ," Sam commented, still weirded out and wanting so badly to allay Dean's suspicions. Dean shrugged again.

"Sorry. I mean, I also wanted to get going. It wasn't  _all_ that guy or anything," Dean added, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't want to freak Sam out.

They finished unpacking the food.

"'Kay start on your homework. I'm gonna give Dad a call," Dean instructed. Sam had already started walking over to his stuff.

"Yeah," Sam commented offhandedly.

Dean sat at the table in the kitchenette and fiddled with the Nokia cell phone. He thought about Rennolds. The guy was creepy. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but there was something wrong with that guy. At the playground, he'd noticed it and it made him uneasy. He wasn't convinced by Sam's vouch for him; if anything it made him more worried that the guy was a teacher. Dean sighed and hoped he had just been around too much evil… That he was starting to see it where there was none.


	3. January 15th, 1996 Part 1

Dean watched Sam dozing on one of the beds in their motel room. After the incident at the grocery store, Sam had been beat… And so was Dean. But Dean didn't go to sleep.

Dean didn't really enjoy brooding. He wasn't the type. But he watched Sam as he sat at the small table near the window of the warmly-lit motel room, both relieved and tortured by the current state of his brother.

Rennolds was a witch.  _Had been_ , Dean changed the tenses in his thoughts, crooking the side of his mouth slightly upward. And the answer to the big, burning question on his mind – Sam still hadn't answered. All Dean knew was the guy had been a witch. And he'd had Sam for a month…

…

Dean and John stepped up the rickety, old wooden steps to a small, decrepit house. It was on the edge of the small town forty-five minutes away from the one Sam had disappeared from.

Dean's senses prickled and his breathing became labored in anticipation as he reached the front door and gave his father a meaningful look.

"D'you feel that?" Dean shrugged his shoulders quickly, trying to break free of the blanket of eeriness covering the place. John nodded subtly, his eyes sharp as knives as he moved back to peer into a window along the front porch. Dean banged on the door suddenly, but John didn't flinch.

"Hey! Open up!" Dean yelled in his deepest voice. John inwardly thought Dean sounded quite commanding, and let Dean get on with it.

"Police! Open up!" Dean shouted again, banging again. Dean looked at John, and John effortlessly elbowed the window, shattering the glass into and over the moth-eaten couch below the sill.

John swiftly maneuvered inside and silently unlocked and opened the front door for Dean. They stepped around the house: living room, disgusting kitchen, unused dining room with shafts of light illuminating the dust mites that would soon meet the others coating every surface. The house felt empty, but for that feeling…

Dean reached the basement door, glanced at John, and slowly gripped the knob and turned. The door creaked steadily, opening, and Dean stepped in and moved down silently. Holding his gun up and directing his flashlight underneath it, he flashed the light over the dank basement.

The floor was a mixture of broken cement slabs and rubble, along with dirt that had accumulated through the cracks. It felt damp, wet, with the smell of mildew permeating the space. It was a rectangular, 'room,' barren of furniture, save for a couple of military-style rusty metal bedframes and dirty, lumpy,  _empty_  (Dean's heart sank slightly) mattresses on the far wall. Between the beds stood a small metal rolling cart with what looked like a mound of dirt on it.

"Hello?" Dean's authoritative voice echoed through the room. The stale humidity clung and seeped into his clothes; his skin. Dean heard the reassuring sounds of his father's footsteps reach the top of the stairs, readying to go down to follow his son. Dean moved further inside the basement, flashing his light and lowering his gun somewhat.

"D'you see anything?" John asked gruffly, looking at the cracked foundations of the walls near the stairs.

Dean had reached the table between the two beds, looking at the thing he had misidentified as a mound of dirt. It was a pouch. Suddenly, the faintest movement could be detected on the mattress to Dean's left.

"Dad," Dean whispered warningly. He voice sounded breathless as it traveled through the dense atmosphere to John. John turned and looked around just as he heard Dean click the safety off his gun as he walked around to the other side of the bed. John pulled his weapon out, releasing the safety and inching towards Dean, ready to back him up.

Dean's flashlight had lit the repulsively dirty mattress the minute he'd seen, more like felt, the movement to his left. Nothing was there, but as Dean focused, he noticed the slightest of vibration coming from it. It was lumpy, and Dean figured it was because an animal was living inside it. Better to take off the safety, though, just in case. He inched his way around, shining the light steady along the mattress until he got to the other side.

At first he couldn't tell exactly what he was looking at – it was under the mattress, against the rusted wire mesh of the bed frame. Dean saw what looked like bloody, matted hairs in a clump near the top of a clump of random pieces and tatters of newspaper and dark fabrics. The bottom of the mattress covered the rest, as it had long since lost its spring and instead fell flush against the mound, pressed in on it. Flies circled the area.

"Ah, god," Dean said, figuring this was going to be a nest of possums or some other disgusting scavenging rodent that had taken up residence on the underside of this mattress.

"Dean, what?" John asked at Dean's renewed casual demeanor.

"Well," Dean started, "Yahtzee on the creep factor. I found what looked like a hex bag there." Dean casually flicked the light over to the bed stand. "And now… This," he finished, bringing the light to look back at the nest of filth he could see was moving the mattress, ever so slightly.

"Throw me the hex bag. We'll take a look at it back at the motel," John commented as Dean picked it up and tossed it to his father casually.

"What's that?" John asked, pointing to the mattress Dean had indicated.

"I think it's possums," Dean offered, staring at it.

"C'mon Dean," John said as he started walking up the staircase. He spoke with tragedy in his voice.

"You think the hex bag was him, Dad?"

Dean looked up and over to his father, who stopped on the stairs. John sighed and rubbed his face.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, wearily. He turned and walked back up the stairs.

Dean turned back to the nest. He stared at it, unseeing.

His father and him were slowly inching closer to the edge of a cliff. Dean could feel it gripping both of them; the search for Sam was making them lose touch – make mistakes – ever so subtly, they would drop each other in silent communication, forget to clean a weapon, leave without telling the other where they were headed.

It started with small things like that and, Dean knew, it would start to impact them. The problem was that neither cared if it did. They both knew, deep down, exactly what they were doing as they unconsciously sabotaged themselves. And they didn't stop. They'd drive each other into graves and neither of them could muster the resolve to stop it.

Dean grimaced and pulled his lips in fiercely, trying to reign in these thoughts and flip it over to anger. Losing Sam had been like a bear trap and now every mission they went on felt like another failed attempt to get free, leaving Dean rabid with rage.

With a guttural shout of fury, Dean wrenched the mattress up and threw it across the room. Not finished, he turned back to the mattress frame, determined to grip it at the foot and fling it against the adjacent wall.

He stopped dead, looking at what was on the mattress, and his breath caught in his throat. It looked like a kid, Dean realized, that had rolled itself into a tight ball; its legs hadn't been visible as they were so closely folded against its chest. Shocked and appalled, he flipped the flashlight over it. A boy.

"DAD!" Dean called out, sounding angry.

Without wasting any more precious time, Dean ran up to the side of the metal frame hovering over the boy's extremely curled back.

"Hey! Hey, kid!" Dean yelled.  _Please don't let this be Sam. Please don't let this be Sam_ , Dean repeated in his head. Without ceremony, he gripped what he thought was probably the boy's arm or shoulder and pulled him over, slamming him onto his back against the wire mesh. The kid barely sprawled out: while he was completely unable to resist consciously, his muscles, which had remained in position for so long, were no longer capable of extending. The boy's hands were fisted against his neck, elbows touching his chest, and his legs were bent, pressed together, and spasming slightly in the air. The teared fabric and paper fell off him slightly at Dean's harsh treatment, revealing pale flesh lightly coated with salty powder.

The boy's injuries were difficult to make out from under his very long, dirtied and bloodied matted hair. One eye was swollen shut, the other had a cut that sliced along the lid, his cheek and the eyelid, both cheeks had gaping, infected gashes, his neck was bruised and held small wounds: rat and insect bites. His lips and chin were covered in what seemed to be dried blood from having choked it up at some point. But the kid was alive: he was trembling slightly. Dean nearly threw up at the sight of him, shocked at the brutality that must have been inflicted.

Almost immediately after flipping him over, Dean still couldn't confirm it was Sam, although dread swooped in through him as he took in the figure before him. He knew… He knew.

"No no no," Dean whispered, near tears, as he frantically scraped away the disgusting, soiled tattered fabric and newspaper that covered the boy's shoulders and chest, looking for one thing. Sam had a scar on his chest, just below his armpit where he'd been nicked on a hunt once. The boy was light, airy; like a doll, as Dean pulled the kid over towards him to look at for it. He gripped the flashlight hard and shined it right into the spot. Dean's blood ran cold and he choked down a sob.

"SAM! SAM!" Dean yelled loudly as he lunged down against Sam, pressing his face against the filthy child, wrapping his arms around and underneath him. The wire mesh was cold, sharp, and Dean could feel the indentations they had made in Sam's skin.

"DEAN!" John yelled, appearing before Dean suddenly. Dean looked up in fear, clutching his brother – one hand around the kid's back, the other around his legs.

"Dad, it's Sam," Dean said weakly, pleading to his father with his eyes as he stood up with Sam in his arms. Dean's stomach dropped in fear when he realized Sam was as light as a feather. He also realized that the pieces of fabric and newspaper had just been lying on Sam. They fell off when Dean picked him up. Sam was only wearing a torn-up, bloody undershirt and boxers.

"Oh Jesus," John said softly, stunned, as he rushed towards them.

As John approached and touched the top of Sam's head gently with one hand, Dean's neck with the other, Dean crooked his neck back to look at Sam's face pressed against his shoulder.

"Sammy?" He said softly, his voice breaking.

"Hhhhh," escaped Sam's lips, and Dean looked at Sam, eyes unblinking in alarm, his mouth open in an unconscious attempt to help Sam to open his. "Hhhhes baaah," Sam whispered, still shivering, his hands in a ball against his neck and eyes closed. At the effort of his words, he jerked a little and trembled in Dean's arms. Dean repositioned him, securing him as he searched his mind for what Sam could possibly have meant.

"Hes… Hes… DAD! Dad the hex bag!" Dean yelled at his father, who immediately pulled away. John's eyes turned cold with purpose as he pulled the bag out and lit it up. He tossed it on the floor as it sizzled out and looked up, the fire still in his eyes.

"C'mon Dean we gotta get him to the hospital," he said urgently, placing a firm hand against Dean to get moving. He saw tears drop onto Sam's face under the glare of his flashlight. "Dean! C'mon!" John barked, painfully, at his son. Dean startled, then hefted Sam up against him with a barely contained sob as he followed his father upstairs as fast as he could.


	4. January 15th, 1996 Part 2

The shanty-house on the edge of the town was still and eerie. Beyond the house, to the east, lay a dense, untouched forest that extended out and up to the region's hilly and mountainous landscape. Dean hadn't known it, but his sense of unease when he had stepped onto the front deck of the shack had been due to the its subtly tilted foundations given its location on an incline. The steep, uphill road in front of the rickety cabin was corroded due to lack of use. Nature was reclaiming the entire area. It was destroying the roughly-mixed, haplessly-laid cement that had once suffocated the ground. It had weathered the cabin over so many years that it was barely standing; no longer habitable. The woods had crept closer and closer to the house and the basement hatch ten yards out from the back was hidden by vegetation and sealed by rust and soil.

A strong wind blew over the forest, pushing fog down from the higher altitudes, and landed in a downward whoosh across the house, which shivered from the force. The current continued to drearily press over the land and past the parked and empty Impala. The treetops of the woods rustled en masse and the off-kilter house swayed loudly. Crickets and insects picked up their calls. Dusk was coming on.

Suddenly, what sounded like an explosion burst through the surroundings as a heavy boot hit hard and slammed open the spring-less front door to the shack. A man emerged from the shack and jumped the steps to race towards the parked Impala. The door nearly disintegrated as it flung back against the exterior of the house with a sharp clacking  _bang_. Within four seconds, Dean appeared in a similar state of panicked action as he rushed out of the house, only he was weighed down by the burden of carrying a small, rolled up ball of a boy.

One arm under Sam's folded knees, the other under his back, Dean realized the boy was so scrunched that his hands could almost meet as he carried him.

Dean couldn't risk the jump from the porch and thundered down the steps with Sam in his arms, continuously gripping and re-gripping Sam as an unconscious form of reassurance for both of them that Dean was holding him securely.

Sam could only feel his body, suspended in air, exposed to the blustery weather outside, shiver and ache along with quick jolts that he didn't understand were Dean's feet landing on the ground as he ran to the Impala.

"C- co-" Sam barely whispered as his head was jostled between Dean's shoulder and upper arm as they moved. Dean hadn't heard him.

"Dad he's freezing cold!" Dean shouted as he ran behind his father, who was just reaching the Impala to open the back door. "Like worse than shock! Dad!"

"Okay get in!" John called back as John ripped open the back door. Dean ducked inside the car, making sure no part of Sam would hit an edge. John disappeared from Dean's sight from the Impala's interior. John fumbled anxiously with his keys as he ran to the trunk to grab supplies.

Dean set Sam down lengthwise on his right side against the seat in the back of the car. Sam was tucked so tightly into himself that he barely took up a half of the seat space. Dean crouched in the seat well in front of Sam anyway, wanting to get a better look at him.

"Okay Sammy, it's going to be okay, you're okay now, you got it? We're taking you to the hospital…" Dean reassured his brother frantically. He felt his brother's neck and head and Dean realized Sam was so cold he had to be hypothermic. It didn't make sense, but…

"DAD-GET THE THERMAL BLANKET!" Dean shouted out from the backseat as he did quick work pulling apart the remnants of Sam's shirt and throwing them onto the floor of the car. He couldn't afford time to stop to look at the intense bruising that had been covered by the measly pieces of t-shirt fabric that had still clung to Sam before. Dean forced himself to ignore it and shrugged out of his own woolly plaid over-shirt, laying it lightly across Sam for a minute.

"Dean!"

Dean looked over and saw his father handing him the blankets from outside. Dean leaned over to grab them from John.

"It's hypothermia," Dean murmured distractedly, gravely to his father as he took the blankets from his father, laid them against Sam, and coughed a little as he straightened up in the seat well, getting ready to take off his undershirt by moving his hands behind his back.

"Oh god, Sammy…" John nearly cried as he moved further into the car, an expression of panic and anguish covering his face. He kneeled on the back seat and hovered over him to feel Sam's head, shoulders and chest. Dean was right.

"Okay come on," John whispered as he noticed Dean was ready, a glint of determination in his eye. He grabbed the blankets off his trembling, traumatized youngest child and helped Dean to move from the seat well, over Sam's curled up form, and into a lying down position behind him.

"Okay Sammy, we're gonna de-thaw you like a turkey, okay," Dean whispered seriously, pressing his bare chest against Sam's back and feebly rubbing Sam's left upper arm. "You're like Christmas dinner," he mumbled, pulling Sam up against him. John didn't smile, but in the back of his head, he appreciated his eldest's macabre stab at humor.

They had moved Sam forward on the seat to make room for Dean to go behind him, Dean and John giving soft, quiet reassurances to Sam all the while. They couldn't tell if Sam even knew it was them… Or if Sam knew he was safe, now.

It was busy, hot, and tense in the backseat of the car: emergency whispers of emphatic instructions and anxiety-based comfort words and phrases flew out of Dean and John's mouths at rapid fire pace. Dean settled down around Sam, lying against his right side, accidentally pinning his right arm against him.

"Good. Bring your right arm up under him," John whispered to Dean. Dean swiveled his head to look up at John from his position behind Sam, Sam's ducked head less than an inch away from Dean's.

"Okay." Dean nodded in understanding, then winced as he followed his father's instructions and pressed between the seat's interior leather and Sam's clammy, cold skin.

"Here, I… Gotchya," John said gently as he leaned in close to them, lifted Sam up a little bit, and grasped Dean's hand. Their hands instantly grasped each other in fast cooperation, and John pulled Dean's arm all the way out so he could wrap it around Sam's chest. Dean breathed in relative relief as he resituated himself again with the free arm. He moving around, almost squirming, to make sure that Sam was getting as much exposure to his skin as possible for the heat transference.

Dean forcefully pushed his left arm between Sam's knees and waist, his warm palm open against Sam's cold, hollow stomach. He snaked his hand further up past Sam's solar plexis, sternum, and clavicle. It finally rested against the frigid, goose-bumped skin of Sam's neck, his index and middle finger gently searching for and finding Sam's pulse. It was weak, but steady. Dean could feel Sam's fists knocking against his wrist as he shivered with cold.

Dean struggled to lift his left leg up over Sams'. He was still wearing his green cargo pants, but it'd still provide Sam with a source of warmth along the boy's lower extremities. Problem was, Dean's knees, even if they were bent completely and raised, couldn't make contact with Sam's tucked and locked legs huddled against his chest.

"Dad-" Dean murmured, looking down at the situation, but John had already foreseen the problem after having pulled Dean's hand from out under Sam. He bit his lip as he leaned over the two with worried eyes. Dean saw the expression on his father's face and a fresh wave of worry plunged through him. John's eyes glanced at Dean's.

"I'll be right back," John said as he gracefully extricated himself from the car and went back to the trunk.

"Dad! The blankets!" Dean called to him, as John had yet to cover them.

In the blink of an eye, John was back with a small first aid box and a plastic bag in his hands. He jumped into the seat again, kneeling back on his haunches and setting the bags down on the small shelf behind the seatback of the car.

"Dad what're you-" Dean started, but stopped as he watched his focused father open the box and pull out a sterilizing pad. He ripped it open with his mouth as he reached inside the plastic bag which, Dean realized, held syringes. "Dad," Dean breathed as he watched his father with mounting apprehension. John took out the sterilization pad and used his mouth, again, to pull the cap off the syringe he now held. "What is that?" Dean asked, his voice dull, as he watched John tap the syringe and lightly press the plunger top, squirting a small amount of liquid out of the bevel.

"Muscle relaxant," John replied steadily as he prepared for the injection: he lowered himself and pushed Dean's legs down so he could get a clear view of Sam's right upper thigh. He pulled Sam's boxers down further so he could reach the gluteus maximus and wiped the area with the pad.

"You might have to hold him for this," John muttered gravely to Dean and then, without hesitation, jammed the syringe deep into the muscle and compressed the plunger.

Dean felt Sam tense with the impact and a slow groan escaped his lips. Dean turned back to look at his brother's expression of oblivious pain and moved his arms around, trying to get Sam to recognize his presence. Dean whispered into his ear.

"Sam, can you hear me? You're safe. It's Dean. Come on it's okay," he said. After a beat, Sam reacted again, bucking half-heartedly with a wet cry. Alarmed, Dean turned back to look at his father who was rising up from having finished applying the second injection in the other leg.

"Okay," John said as he threw out the medical trash leftovers out the door onto the ground. He maneuvered around.

"Dad seriously just get on the wheel and drive he needs a hospital-," Dean whispered vehemently, but trailed off at the end, pleading. Ignoring his son, John gently grasped Sam's knee with one hand, ankle with the other, and slowly, minutely started to pull Sam's thighs down from his chest.

"Hhhh… Haaa…" Sam uttered in pain, tears starting to stream from his eyes and fall to the seat. Relentless, John continued with a pained expression on his face, and Sam gave a half-hearted jolt (Dean clamped down on him), then more frequent minute jerks… As if John were a rat Sam only had to scare away with movement.

"AH!" Sam suddenly screamed as John had suddenly extended the leg out too far too fast during the process.

"DAD!" Dean yelled. John nodded, still looking at Sam's legs. Sam's knees were still bent, but they were angled nearly straight along the seat, now. John, overwhelmed by having had to do that to his youngest son, allowed himself a small, brief gesture of affection as he patted his boy's damaged, mottled-with-bruises, legs. Outside, behind him, he heard wind whistling and suddenly felt a gust blow against his back. Sam's body trembled, reacting, and John felt the shake beneath his hand.

"Okay," John whispered. John's movements were quick and decisive. He whipped out the softly crinkling thermal blanket and gently let the brilliantly reflective silver fabric float down softly against his sons. As it covered their bodies and faces, John's last sight of them was Dean turning into Sam's shaking body, pressing himself against him, and raising his knee up and around Sam's waist.

Dean closed his eyes under the blanket as he clutched Sam to him. Dean's muscles were tense, twitching everywhere in fear as he moved around, feeling around Sam, trying to create warmth from friction as well as body heat transference; trying to will every ounce of warmth and heat away from him and into Sam.

Next, John turned and threw the 13-year old lightweight quilt (which Mary had made) over the two of them and clinically pushed the blanket gently closer around the boys' bodies. Next was the heavy wool army blanket that was slightly smaller, but valued primarily for how heavy it was. John then jumped out of the backseat, shut the door, wrenched open his, and slid behind the wheel in what seemed like one single movement.

Blanket after blanket had continually muffled all outside sounds. Dean and Sam's movements, breath, and whispers were amplified as they laid there, huddling under them. Dean kept feeling for Sam's pulse every ten seconds, gently pressing against his brother's neck each time, allaying the anxiety that came in waves as he now heard the sound of Sam's shallow breaths.

Dean let out a slow, shaky breath that he didn't know he'd been holding as he felt the car rumble to life. The sound of his exhale seemed deafening, though, and he wondered if it had startled Sam. Sam hadn't reacted. The Impala suddenly accelerated, its force pushing Sam further back against Dean and Dean met with the back of Sam's head in his face. Dean smelled the rancid stench of his brother's disgusting, matted hair.

"Oh god," Dean breathed heavily, overwhelmed. A brief hiccup escaped his lips in repulsion and grief. Hidden under the safety of the blankets, removed from outside noise and distraction, and aware they were headed for the hospital, Dean gave way. Soft sobs echoed inside the warm cocoon as Sam continued to shake under Dean.

"Hhh," Sam rasped, suddenly, after about thirty seconds. Dean stopped short in his tragedy, falling completely silent; even holding his breath.

"Sammy?" Dean breathed into his brother's ear, his voice quivering. There was a pause as Dean waited, hoping against hope for some kind of a response.

"Dean," Sam hissed, barely moving his lips or tongue. Dean felt tears swell in his eyes.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me," he cried tenderly in feigned delight. He sniffed and pressed his cheek against Sam's cold one. "It's Dean. I'm here," Dean breathed again. "We're really worried about you," Dean choked out softly as a tear dripped quickly out of his eye. Dean let out a brief exhale then rapidly sucked the warm recycled air back to his lungs to hold his breath again.

"'m okay," Sam wheezed in a weak, high pitch. His reassurance sounded breezy, light-hearted. He didn't realize what had happened; what was going on. Dean let out another exhale, this time with amusement.

"Okay," Dean replied feebly, blinking back tears. There was a pause and Dean let it be as he kept going with his slow movements, trying to warm Sam up around his chest with his wrist and palm.

"He- Tha…He-" Sam tried to say, his breathing more labored.

"We got the hex bag, Sammy," Dean undertoned against his brother's ear. Dean could feel Sam relax a little bit underneath him.

"Cold," Sam exhaled, "M' Heart…"

"I know, Sam," Dean replied helplessly, continuing his ministrations and pulling his left leg up closer to Sam's body. After a few beats, Dean noticed Sam starting to heave his breaths more.

"Sam, you gotta relax. Your breathing-" But Sam had started to move his left shoulder back against Dean, his right shoulder forwards in the seat. Dean shifted back some of the pressure of his body on Sam so he wouldn't have to struggle.

"Sam-" Dean said, surprised he had just implemented his classic  _stop-being-difficult_  voice in the midst of this emergency. Sam's movements were jerky, frenetic, as he started angling himself more so that he would face the roof of the car. Dean kept his hand on Sam's chest as he did so, feeling Sam's heart beat pick up.

"Sam-" Dean spoke in concern, about to stop Sam from moving any further when Sam stopped of his own volition, having fully gotten himself to lie on his back, his breathing incredibly labored. Dean saw Sam's shaking, fisted hands clenching and unclenching under his neck, about two centimeters of finger expansion evident. Sam's right hand, his writing hand, made a quick movement to knock against his clavicle, indicating his chest.

"Col-d…" Sam gasped out, his eyes closed. Dean immediately understood.

Dean lifted himself up a little bit, his head creating a tented look to the blankets pulled over them. He couldn't waste time, but he couldn't help but observe how absolutely frail and helpless Sam looked as he hovered over him, waiting for Dean. Dean's stomach gave a sinking flip of urgency and panic as he made haste to gain leverage with his legs and lifted Sam up from the seat a little bit.

A grunt of pain escaped Sam's lips and continued as brief cries as Dean maneuvered one arm around Sam's waist, the other up his back along his spine, his hand landing against the base of his neck.

"Okay, it's okay. I gotchya… I gotchya…" Dean whispered comfortingly to his brother as he moved down and pushed himself against Sam. Dean tried so hard to gently jostle Sam's forearms apart to reach his chest, but Sam's muscles screamed in pain. Sam gasped and started sobbing as his arms pulsed in excruciating pain at the movement. Dean didn't stop until he felt Sam's heart up against his own. Sam had been right: his chest was  _cold_.

"Don't cry, don't cry, just give it a second, just wait it out," Dean murmured in desperate sympathy as he felt Sam's fists now shaking spastically, caught between his and Sam's shoulders.

Sam's cries started to slow down and lessen even though his breathing was still labored from the exertion; his heart beat started to stabilize. Dean slowly tipped them onto their sides so he no longer had to hold Sam up with his own strength. Dean detected a brief hiccup of pain that Sam cut short in the process, trying to manage the pain.

Finally, they settled: Dean lying on his right side against the seatback, pressing Sam to him chest-to-chest. Dean made an effort to have Sam's chin lying over his shoulder so he could breathe against the back of Sam's neck. At the same time, Dean wrapped his thigh up and around Sams', making sure his lower body and extremities would be touching a heat source as well.

Sam's breath was still labored, but Dean could feel it evening out. His heart rate started to match Dean's, too, which he took to mean improvement. Dean slowly rubbed Sam's back, still working so hard to bring warmth back into Sam's body, but the adrenaline was slowly starting to ebb. Exhausted, Dean sank into Sam's freezing cold body a little more and closed his eyes. He estimated everything that had just happened had taken about half an hour: a half-hour of intense panic and coordination to save Sam.

The Impala sped through the town's main streets and past rural homesteads. Its familiar vibrations traveled through Sam and Dean as John drove like a bat out of hell.

In reality, Dean and John had gotten Sam out of the shack's basement and onto the road within five minutes flat. It would take them less than three now to reach the hospital.


	5. February 15th, 1996

"Sam… Sam!" Dean shouted in irritation as he ran up to his brother on the sidewalk. It was four-thirty; late afternoon. School had let out and Sam had taken off to walk back to the motel. It was drizzling out, about to pour, which Dean was quick to point out.

"Dean, c'mon, I just want to walk," Sam said, avoidant, as he quickly shrugged Dean's hand off his shoulder. Dean had been trying to pull him back; to slow down, if not stop his brother's pace. Dean let his hand fall and simply fell in step behind his brother. His chin jutted in silent frustration: he had been waiting in the school parking lot for ten minutes, searching for Sam and hoping nothing had happened to him.

Ever since they had gotten Sam back a month ago, Dean couldn't help it: he was terrified of losing his brother again. Even ten minutes had been too long, and the pins of panic kept poking and biting into his heart as he had sat behind the wheel, watching the parading children flow out of the school entrance with no sign of Sam. He had accidentally followed his very real fears into reality: what if Sam had been taken? Dean would have to run into the school, make an inquiry. What if Sam had been abducted during the school day and had missed his last classes? That'd give them a large, less manageable radius of land to cover if they had to commence a search. What if it was Rennolds?

Dean had to stop there in his thoughts, accidentally imagining a scene where Sam had become a victim again. The imagery clamped down on his heart, weighting it further in Dean's chest. He couldn't help it: he thought of his brother differently now… Because his brother was different. Not any less loved by Dean, but definitely different.

Sam was still skinny, weak, pale... He was still recovering. John hadn't pushed Sam, and Sam didn't seem interested in training, so it was just a matter of making sure he had a stable diet and took care of himself. He didn't want to get his hair cut, so it stayed neck-length. It was more than just his physical appearance that had changed, though. Sam  _looked_  vulnerable. Something had changed in Sam that month; Sam had lost something… Something that left him unguarded and uncaring. Dean didn't want to think about it, but was always reminded of it when he looked into Sam's eyes (Sam rarely made eye contact, but when he did, it was usually only to Dean). What Dean saw inside couldn't be described as an emotion… More just a lack of energy; a lack of emotion. It made Dean scared for Sam.

Dean had given up on searching for Sam and decided to drive the route back to the motel to see if Sam had took it upon himself to walk home without Dean. After spotting him walking along a small residential street in town, Dean had beckoned to him to hop in. Sam had insisted on walking, so Dean parked the car and strode up to him to bring him back.

Still reeling from the ten minute exercise in evoking guilt and worry in the parking lot, Dean spoke.

"Sam, what the hell, man. Let's  _go_ , it's gonna  _rain_ , don't you  _get_  it?" Dean said sharply. This time he gripped Sam's shoulder and pulled him back from his next forward step. "I parked the car back there," Dean gestured behind him, "C'mon, dude," Dean finished as Sam turned around to look at Dean, a surprisingly angry look on his face.

"Dean! I want to walk it. I'll see you back at the motel, okay? God." Sam scowled and turned around.

" _Why_?" Dean asked as if Sam was crazy, and Sam stopped and turned again to face his brother.

"To think. I don't know. Just leave me alone, okay?" Sam whined in irritation. He was coming up on his thirteenth birthday soon, and Dean bitterly thought Sam was more than hitting that benchmark of 'maturity.'

Caught between Sam walking in one direction, the Impala parked in the other, and an impending storm, Dean was torn. He watched Sam as he kept walking away from him. At the sight of his little, hunched in brother walking away from him, something in Dean snapped. He'd had enough of this back and forth; Sam had just scared the shit out of him in the parking lot and now he wants Dean to leave him in the middle of a downpour that was three minutes off?

"Sam, c'mon, I'm not gonna leave you," Dean whispered vehemently. It would've been a sweet statement had Dean not grabbed Sam's wrist and pulled him back, this time quite forcefully. Sam was no match for his brother as he stumbled back.

"Dean!" Sam yelled in surprise and pain. As he stumbled back closer to Dean, Dean moved to his brother's side and grabbed the base of his Sam's neck. Sam reacted, hunching at the pressure against his neck.

"Dean! What the hell are you doing-" Sam yelled, furious, and struggling to get Dean off him.

"Sam, stop, I'm taking you home. You're not getting pneumonia because you need to brood," Dean said, disgusted by Sam's behavior.

"Get off me!" Sam yelled as he stumbled along with his brother, but Dean's hands remained where they were. He didn't loosen his grip, either, knowing Sam would take advantage of it and do something stupid. Sam repeated his shouts as Dean forced him down the sidewalk.

"Please stop, I don't want to – I just want to walk!" Sam yelled, this time his voice hinted a plaintive waver. Dean hadn't picked up on that, though.

"No," Dean replied simply, confident.

Dean grunted in pain and surprise at Sam's sharp elbow slammed into his stomach. Unfortunately, it didn't make Dean release Sam, but rather made Dean grasp the base of Sam's neck harder and pull back.

"AH!" Sam shouted in pain, arching his back backwards and raising both his hands up in a natural reaction to reach up to his neck. Quick as whip, Dean managed to grab his kid brother's wrists in both hands and press them against against Sam's chest.

"Sam what're you-" Dean started saying as Sam finally managed to rip himself away from Dean's hold on his neck. Dean didn't understand this dance: Sam knew he was trying to fight  _Dean_ , right? Because Dean could easily take Sam down even when Sam had been at the top of his game  _before_  Rennolds. It was the age difference, mainly, but now Sam was even weaker than he had been.

Sam tore away from his brother's grip and Dean immediately pressed his now free hand on Sam's wrists while stepping into Sam's space and tripping him as he tried to back away.

"Dean!" Sam yelled in fear. Dean suddenly felt Sam clutch Dean's hands back as he fell and, in all honesty, Dean could've righted him back up at that exact moment. But Sam had chosen to fight this one out and Dean wanted this to end. So Dean let Sam drop until he was about three inches from the sidewalk pavement. Dean's heart gave another twist of tragedy when he saw his brother brace for impact as he held onto Dean's hands. He really thought Dean was going to crush him down against the pavement.

Dean stopped the impact and held him suspended for a second, crouching over him. Sam recovered fast, opening his eyes and glaring at Dean. Dean gently landed Sam on the ground and hovered over him. Sam was breathing heavily, absolutely spent from their 'fight.' The hatred in his eyes was palpable, though, as he stared up at his big brother.

Another thing about Sam – his pupils seemed to widen more often nowadays, giving them an empty, black appearance. And now those wide eyes, staring at him with such contempt, intimidated Dean. Whatever anger Dean had had earlier couldn't compare to what he was seeing in Sam now. It drained Dean; scared him. Dean swallowed his nerves and his expression transformed into confused worry.

"What is going on with you, huh?" Dean asked gently, pushing against Sam's chest as a soft prompt. He didn't ever want to see his brother looking at him like this. This was terrible. "Sam, Sammy-" Dean started, pressing against Sam again. Sam didn't move to get up; he pursed his lips and looked away from Dean, repressing his fury. Dean looked down at his brother on the cold sidewalk pavement, having just been laid out by his brother in front of anybody that had looked out their window. Dean wished he could take it back so Sam didn't have to lie here like this. It wasn't right; something had gone terribly wrong here. And Dean didn't know what to do. "Sammy?"

At the sound of Dean's nickname the second time over, Sam couldn't help a tear escaping his eye from the side he knew Dean would see. He heard Dean repeat his name over again in sympathy at the sight of it… Which was just so much worse.

"I  _hate_  you," Sam said weakly from the ground, his voice sounding strangled. When he had finished, his breath had started to pick up in speed, a couple more tears fell from his gaunt, angular face.

Dean knew Sam was dealing with a lot, but Sam hit a nerve on this one. Dean knew Sam really felt that way about him. Right now. Over getting driven home.

Dean sat back on his haunches, removing his touch from Sam, a little stunned. He didn't know he could feel so low; he was sinking in it, wondering if there was any recourse… Any textbook reaction to someone you love, someone you've practically raised, telling you in defeated truth that they despise you.

Dean snapped out of his reverie when he saw Sam struggle to sit up. His breathing was hitched and he'd started to gasp. He held his chest in obvious discomfort and increasingly in distress. He just stared down at the ground, hunched over and struggling.

Dean reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out Sam's inhaler.

"Hey-" Dean whispered as he inched forward and held the inhaler out into Sam's line of sight. Sam's breathing caught more as he smacked Dean's hand, holding the inhaler, away, shaking his head. He exhaled with a humming sound, trying to calm himself down, but it sounded broken, shaky. Sam could feel Dean coming closer to him.

"Nnn-" Sam vocalized on the briefest of inhales as Dean inched closer. Sam recoiled away from Dean's presence.

"Sam, take your inhaler, c'mon," Dean said gently, wishing more than anything that Sam would just do as he said. "I'm right on this one, Sam, okay? Take it," Dean coaxed urgently, pressing the inhaler back into Sam's view. Sam shook his head vehemently, but the attack on his lungs wasn't letting up. Dean could tell Sam was losing whatever remaining strength he had by refusing the inhaler, his hands barely able to hold themselves up in a defensive gesture to keep Dean at bay. Dean's eyes threatened tears: Sam was willing to suffer this much just so he could reject Dean? Dean stole himself for what he had to do.

"Sam-" Dean whispered, hurt, as he maneuvered behind Sam and wrapped his arm under and around Sam's chest. At the same time he started shaking the inhaler with the other. Sam weakly struggled against Dean, pressing his hands against Dean's hand, trying to peel it off, even as he was suffocating. "Stop, Sam," Dean whispered weakly, unhappy that it was coming to this. Once shook, he placed the inhaler between Sam's now blue-ish lips. "Three, two, exhale, and," Dean whispered quickly into Sam's ear with the same rhythm and words he used to use for Sam when he was so much younger - when he had needed someone to do this for him. Dean compressed the canister and sprayed. "Hold," he finished. Dean pulled the inhaler away and started shaking it again as he felt Sam tensing as he held his breath, unconsciously squeezing Dean's hand around his waist a little bit. "Again," Dean said quietly, as he felt Sam's breathing was still choppy. He pressed the mouthpiece between Sam's lips again. "Three, two, exhale, and…" Dean pressed the canister and sprayed. "Hold," he said, pulling the inhaler away again and putting it back into his jacket pocket and allowing Sam time to recover. Sam slumped away from Dean and Dean let him. He pulled away from Sam and leaned back on the sidewalk. He felt a drop of rain on his hand. It was cold water. He looked at Sam's figure and assessed that he would probably be all right to get up.

Dean stood up sorely and walked in front of his brother, who was still sitting on the ground. He offered his hand, but Sam, sensing Dean's presence standing over him, just got up shakily, not noticing his brother's gesture. Dean made sure Sam was following him before he started walking back to the car. Lightning struck; it was now darker, cloudy and Dean knew the thunder was going to crack over them at-

 _Boom_!

Yeah, there it was. The sky broke open and started pouring. Dean looked back to Sam.

"Come on!" He yelled to Sam as he started jogging to the car. Sam didn't change pace until he'd walked a few more steps. Just as Dean reached the driver's side, he saw Sam jogging wearily towards him and crossed the front of the car to get into the passenger seat.

Dean started the car and pulled out of the space. Neither of them spoke in the front seat as he drove back to the motel.

They didn't talk to each other for the rest of the night, either, really. Dean asked Sam what he wanted for dinner and got him what he wanted – pizza. Dean asked him if he wanted to play a game, watch tv, drive to the stupid colonial museum he thought Sam might appreciate. Sam replied with monosyllabic negatives each time. Eventually, this dam would break, Dean knew.

But not tonight.


	6. February 16th, 1996

"Dear Sam,

It's been a month since we got you back. I'm writing this to you because lately I haven't been able to talk to you – or say the right things to you. I'm obviously doing something wrong, so I thought maybe this would be able to help.

I've been so anxious to know what happened to you. I really want to know. The ups and downs you went through in the hospital – the doctors had no idea how you got the injuries you had – or how you were healing so quickly. Did Rennolds do something to you besides hurting you? Did he make it so you could heal that fast? If he did, would you know about it? If you know about it, why wouldn't you tell me?

These are some of my questions. I know I'm a jerk – I push you too hard sometimes. I promise you I would have let you walk to the middle of nowhere, Sam, if the weather had been better, if you had been wearing a heavier jacket… And, especially, if you had let me follow. The cards weren't in your favor, though. I'm sorry I did what I did. It wasn't right and I never want to see that look on your face again. I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.

I've been kind of stupid for the past month… I've been making everything about you. I think I've just been worrying so much about you that I haven't noticed how far along you've come since we got you out of that shack.

You're getting to the point where you don't need my paranoid shitshow…. And while you try to stop me from hovering over you like a friggin hawk, I'm pretty stubborn. And I'm older than you, and I've always taken care of you… And I know that's hard to fight.

Anyway, I want to let you know why I freak out, okay?

When you got taken from us, Dad and I went totally ballistic. I had suspected Rennolds from the start, too, and I wanted to get to that bastard as fast as possible before he jumped ship with you. We were too late, though. He had gotten you in the morning – when the school called about your absence about three hours later, we couldn't find you or Rennolds. You guys had been long gone.

I spent my Christmas this year hearing and watching Dad torture and murder a member of Rennolds' coven. She deserved it.

Dad and I spent our New Year's visiting a morgue that had reported a twelve year old unidentified body.

The entire month you were gone, Dad took me out of school to help find you. At first, for like a week, we searched without much else on our minds. But soon, well, when we weren't researching or training, all Dad and I did was fight about whose fault this was. Dad was looking to blame someone and I couldn't ever deny that it fell on me. But we still fought because… Fuck him.

After the second week we still couldn't find you, Dad nearly drank himself to death at a bar after telling me that if we didn't find you in the next two weeks, he'd file the papers for me to be emancipated, set me up in an apartment, enroll me back into school, and leave.

I got the call from the hospital at three in the morning and spent the rest of the night there. He assured me that nothing in his plans had changed. That he still intended to leave to go find you alone after two weeks. He said I weighed him down.

I can't really explain to you how much I regret how all of this happened. And it feels like I keep digging my own grave here.

I'm okay with Dad, now. I understand why he planned to do what he was going to do with me – I had let you get taken and, although Dad said it was that I needed to get back to school, I could tell the truth was that he couldn't fake his disapproval of me for much longer. He couldn't search for his son, you, while sitting next to me.

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but Dad still looks at me like a stranger that lost his son. And I'm pretty sure that if you hadn't done what you did in the hospital, Dad would have filed those papers anyway.

But, like I said, Dad and I are fine. And, to be honest, I don't really care as long as I've got you to take care of. We were kind of living like emancipated teens anyway before this all happened after all.

The thing is, the look you gave me yesterday, Sam. I've seen it before on other people's faces and, normally, I wouldn't give a shit. I know I deserve how much you might hate me for having lost you. But I need you to forgive me. I would die for you – I wish I had, just so you could have been spared from Rennolds. But that's not the way things work, unfortunately. Instead, I had to look into your eyes yesterday and see how clearly my failures continue to stack up against you.

I am so sorry, Sam.

Dean"

Dean rubbed his watery eyes harshly, then tore the dirty old yellow legal pad pages out one by one. He asked himself whether writing a letter to your brother was more or less lame than writing in a friggin pink diary. He smashed the pages into a compact ball and shot it at the waste bin next to the TV. It knocked against the TV stand and went in.

"I am Michael Jordan!" Dean shouted, raising his hands in the air in exaggerated triumph. Sam looked up from the bed.

"If you say so," Sam murmured back, looking back down at his textbook, highlighter in hand. Dean lowered his arms and gave Sam a playful expression that clearly conveyed he thought Sam was no fun. Sam paid him no mind.

Slowly, Dean's humorous let-down expression became darker as he stared at Sam, wondering when the right time would be to talk about… Any of this.


	7. February 18th, 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!: Sam's time with Rennolds is spelled out here. No physical violence occurs - things are very much what I consider to be off-brand versions of the Cruciatus curse, haha.

Sam's eyes roamed slowly over the blade in his hands. He felt the edge, thinking.

Rennolds wasn't a bad guy. He was working for the greater good. Not long after coming to Wilbourne, the teacher had become one of Sam's favorites. Rennolds had mentioned to Sam that he thought Sam was special. When he did, it wasn't creepy. It was like he knew it – he reflected confidence, almost inspiration, when he would talk to Sam.

And Sam couldn't help but feel gratitude. No one else believed in him like Rennolds. There's a difference in supporting someone and believing in them. The latter takes something more – something Rennolds seemed to have for Sam in spades. And Rennolds was  _always_  genuine. He never made bad jokes, never employed sarcasm, never gave anything other than valuable constructive criticism when mistakes had been made by his students.

And when he'd kidnapped Sam, he'd sat him down at the kitchen table in a small, modestly-furnished house and explained to him exactly why he'd done it. Sure, he'd been handcuffed and restrained, but that was obviously because Sam would have bolted the minute he reached consciousness, so Sam didn't hold that detail against the guy. Rennolds could anticipate him: he read Sam well.

Sam didn't think he was easily manipulated. He'd grown up in rough conditions with only his brother tethering him to the nearest semblance of a functional home life (even though calling it that was still quite a stretch). Plus, Sam was stubborn. Really, really stubborn. After relaxing enough to hear Rennolds' pitch, Sam had put him through an interrogation the likes of which would have made O.J. confess.

Slowly but surely, Rennolds made his case and Sam's determination to escape lessened bit after bit. Rennolds' words caught under Sam's skin and buried into his heart. Rennolds wouldn't relent, either, and as he spoke so plainly the truth to this twelve year old boy, he felt sympathy.

There it was, plain as day: the truth. Finally, Sam had answers. A demon had killed their mother in the nursery because it wanted Sam. And it had dripped blood over the crib, into his mouth, at six months of age. And now, Sam was special.

The boy, Rennolds observed with deep satisfaction, was gradually coming to accept Rennolds' argument. He was unwittingly becoming a party to his own abuse, which Rennolds knew was going to make things so tremendously less difficult. He nearly jumped for joy.

They had been two weeks in when Sam finally called it quits on making this a voluntary series of experiments.

At the memory of it, Sam bit back his own sense of shame for having let it go on for so long thinking Rennolds and him were in this together: were trying to figure out what exactly Sam could do (or couldn't do)  _together_.

Rennolds had discussed with Sam a particularly nasty ritual… One in which Sam would experience fever-like symptoms and hallucinations – if it worked on him, that is. They had a list on the fridge of the rituals and metaphysical weapons that did… And did not… Work on Sam. They had compiled it together… For two weeks. To Sam's intense frustration, many of them failed, leaving him shattered mentally and physically often. But they were starting to see a pattern.

But this time, Sam said no. He put his foot down on the issue and wouldn't budge. He was still recovering from the damage of their last 'experiment' and he didn't think he'd be able to take another failed ritual so soon. Rennolds eventually relented, nodding in sympathy and agreeing to wait.

Little did Sam know that this was Rennolds' first lie to him. An hour later, Sam found himself falling unconscious on the sofa in the living room after having eaten his dinner.

He woke up, opening his eyes slowly; they stayed at half-mast. He was lying on the varnished dining room table – the one they had been using for rituals for the past two weeks - surrounded by the painted symbols and emblems he had seen in the book Rennolds had shown him that afternoon. He realized he was paralyzed; unable to get up off the table. Fear shot through him as he saw Rennolds in his usual dark-hooded robe lean and hover over his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but we have to see if this works-"

"Rennolds, no! Can't we wait! Please!" Sam pleaded, barely able to speak through his numbed lips.

"No," Rennolds responded in a deep, sinister voice. Sam's eyes started tearing as he struggled in vain to move his limbs. He heard Rennolds start his chant.

Suddenly, Sam felt a wave of heat enter through and into him, settling itself inside him and boiling him alive. He tried to hold back screams of agony, but finally couldn't help himself. He tried to scream out for help – for Rennolds to stop – but the scream came out as soft gurgles and raspy whispers of pain. His bodied shuddered involuntarily as Rennolds continued for ten more minutes.

…

When all was said and done, Rennolds left Sam huffing on the table, a slick sheen of sweat covering his trembling body. As Sam's tears continued to flow and roll down his temples, into his hair, onto the table, Rennolds gently threw a blanket over him. He told Sam to rest as the effects of the paralyzing drug wore off.

The dining and living rooms were connected and Sam could hear Rennolds move to his computer and turn on the TV to a news channel. Sam heard the clacking of the keyboard as Rennolds typed and let his silent cries and tears continue to fall down his face as the impact of what just happened resonated within him. Rennolds had just violated him – he had lied, then drugged, then tortured him in the name of discovering Sam's powers. He had just used him like a test animal.

Sam had been completely at his mercy for the past two weeks – not knowing that on his first day in that kitchen, Rennolds would have kept him against his will if he had refused to cooperate. All along, Sam realized, Rennolds had been willing to destroy Sam in order to figure out what made him tick.

…

Rennolds was still watching the news when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Sam was slowly, sorely rolling over onto his side and lifting himself up. Rennolds turned off the TV and got up to go over to him. Crying louder now, as the paralysis wore off, Sam shouted at him.

"Get the hell away from me!" He screamed through sobs, a combination of hatred and panic surfacing.

"Sam, here-" Rennolds said gently, offering his hands as support for Sam to hold onto as he moved his legs off the table, ready to reach the floor. Sam recoiled.

"Don't  _touch_  me," he hissed through his tears, and Rennolds backed off. Sam scooted off the table and nearly fell, still shaky and disoriented. He sniffed, rubbing his mouth and eyes with his sleeve. He started moving towards his bedroom. Concerned, Rennolds called to him.

"Sam-! What're you doing?"

"I'm going to my bedroom. S'that okay with you, you asshole!" Sam shot back at him in shattered fury.

…

Sam sat on his bed in Rennolds' house, nearly hyperventilating and slowly letting the day's events penetrate. He got up and got his small knife out – the one Dean had given him. The one he couldn't reach when Rennolds had first accosted him and kidnapped him. Sam breathed in and out heavily, prepping himself for what he was about to do, and walked out of his bedroom.

The lie about respecting Sam's wishes to hold off on the ritual had been the first for Rennolds to give, but it hadn't been the last.

Before Sam had even passed through the kitchen, Rennolds had stopped him.

"Sam what're you doing?"

Sam stopped before Rennolds, disheveled and weak.

"I'm going home. I want to go back to my family," Sam managed, obviously still battling with his emotions and recovering from the ritual's effects.

"Sam, go rest in your bedroom," Rennolds replied sympathetically.

"No! I want to go home!" Sam shouted, following his words with a brief sob. Tears broke through his eyes again as he looked up at Rennolds, silently begging the man to let him go. He knew he didn't have a chance in hell if Rennolds wouldn't let him go.

And that was when Rennolds launched into so many lies about Dean and John, it had Sam's head spinning. Rennolds claimed they had given Sam to him specifically for the task at hand. That they had agreed to a month. That Rennolds hadn't initially told Sam because he wanted Sam to feel stolen, not abandoned. But Dean and John had abandoned him – but only for a month. Just a month.

"If your father and brother were such great hunters, how come they haven't found you by now, huh?" Rennolds hissed with intensity, a tone Sam had never heard before. Rennolds words cut through him and Sam felt his heart beat faster, overwhelmed. "It's because they know what we're doing, Sam. They've known where you've been all along," Rennolds spoke slowly with an air of finality. Then Rennolds disposition broke into compassion, confusing Sam even more. "Just two more weeks," Rennolds begged, "-And then you can go back to your family. I promise, okay?"

Sam had said no. Rennolds was no longer safe. Even if John and Dean  _had_  meant for Rennolds to keep him for a month, they wouldn't have wanted Rennolds to do what he'd just done to him.

And as Sam moved to open the front door, Rennolds viciously spat an incantation from behind him, sending stars and lights flashing before Sam's eyes as his head felt like it was splitting open.

In hindsight, Sam recognized this pain: it had been an incantation Rennolds had tried on him before.

As expected, Sam passed out before he hit the floor.

…

Sam woke up in a daze, tucked in bed. He let his jumbled memories of the past twenty-four hours arrange themselves as the clock ticked the seconds.

Fear and shame plagued him as the significance of what had happened sunk into him. He was trapped. Rennolds knew too many ways to incapacitate him if he ever wanted to escape. Sam's heart melted at the thought of Dean and his father. They must be out there, searching for him…

… Right?

Sam wasn't sure – he was now so insecure about the integrity of Rennolds' statements. Sam, now with eyes wide open, resolved to get out – to escape at any cost; at every potential opening of opportunity.

This resolve led to the two most hellish weeks of agony Sam had ever experienced.

…

Sam held the blade's tip to his finger in the motel room, still thinking. He absent-mindedly pressed too hard on the blade as his embarrassment knocked itself up a notch, thinking about how gullible he'd been that first day in Rennolds' kitchen. How he had actually helped to degrade himself to the pathetic thing he was now.

"Ah…" Sam whispered in pain as he saw he'd accidentally cut himself handling the knife. He stared at the red blood – it wasn't dripping. It just emerged from the cut and remained.

He put the knife down and went into the bathroom to wash it with soap.

He walked out of the bathroom, drying his hands on the hand towel, sighing, and glanced down at the waste basket. Dean had been writing for awhile on the legal pad in the motel room a couple of days ago and, since they never allowed the maids in, the huge wadded ball of paper was still there.

Curious to know what ridiculous list of celebrities Dean would 'Do' or what rankings he gave to his favorite types of pies, Sam picked it up, ready for an amusing distraction.


	8. January 18th, 1996

Sam's breathing was shallow as he lay against his brother's chest, his head fully resting on Dean's shoulder, eyes closed, in the backseat of the Impala. Dean had wrapped his arm around Sam, his hand lightly opened around Sam's upper arm. Their father had done a relatively poor job of choosing what clothes to bring to the hospital for Sam to change in to. Sam was wearing a light cotton t-shirt under a giant padded coat – Dean used to call Sam the Stay-Puft Marshmellow Man in order to mock him while still getting in a good Ghostbusters reference. The completed look finished out with a pair of heavy cargo pants that Dean suspected were too big on him, now. He didn't do any walking, though, so Dean couldn't tell if they were falling off him.

They were driving back from the hospital. John had been anxious to leave; Rennolds was still out there, somewhere, and the hospital left Sam too vulnerable.

When Sam had improved so much by the end of the third day in the hospital, his doctor, upon John's insistence, reluctantly signed the release forms.

Dean hadn't wanted Sam to go anywhere, but John held the conviction that he was doing the right thing. And Sam wanted to leave, as well. Dean had to bow to John's judgment, so when John left to pull the car around, Dean had rolled Sam out in his wheelchair, accompanied by the friendly hospital attendant, and stopped at the hospital's front pick-up area.

Dean readjusted the strap of the duffel hanging off his shoulder and bent down past Sam to lock the wheelchair in place as they waited. As he did so, he decided to simply stay crouched down next to Sam: he was tired and fine where he was. The wheelchair was a smaller size – meant for children and Dean was able to rest his forearm along the chair's armrest. He looked over at his brother, looking small and turned in on himself in his massive puff jacket. His hair fell past his face, blocking Dean's ability to see, but his head was ducked down under the collar of the jacket, his shoulders hunched.

"Hey-" Dean said lightly, reaching over and gently pulling Sam's hand from where it was in his lap. He turned Sam's hand slowly around to hold it. As he did, he felt Sam return the pressure. "You okay?" Dean asked, uncertain. Sam shivered a nod. "You cold?" Sam drew in a breath.

"Yeah," Sam murmured, and readjusted his position in the chair.

"You'll be in the car in no time," Dean said, moving forward a little bit and making sure the zipper on Sam's jacket was zipped up all the way. Sam, normally irritated by such coddling, just let Dean get on with it.

Dean moved back to the side of Sam's wheelchair and picked up Sam's hand again. Neither of them let go. John pulled the Impala up.

…

It was snowing heavily by the time they'd reached the motel. It had a ranch-style theme to it and the parking lot was mainly heavy clay dirt and painted white rocks to indicate parking slots along the sides. Sam had fallen asleep against Dean and Dean had to inch away and set Sam softly against the backseat before he could get out and meet his father behind the car, opening the trunk.

"Dean let's ah… Let's get the stuff in first and then bring Sam in, okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, glancing up at his father openly, confirming this was a good plan of action. The heavy snowfall had increased even though the wind was low: the snow seemed to be everywhere and Dean felt a sharp shiver go down his spine as flakes had landed at the back of his held, melted, and started dripping down his back. Dean and his father seemed to be the only moving things in the landscape except the falling snow. It muffled and echoed sounds, making their steps and movements crackle and crunch. John and Dean could see their warm breath at every exhale as they managed all the groceries and supplies to ensure they'd only have to take one trip.

"Leave the gear," John murmured next to Dean, noticing his reach for one of the duffels with weapons in it.

"What? Why?" Dean asked.

"C'mon!" John replied, relaxed, as he jogged to the motel room. He made new, deep footprints in the freshly fallen snow. John pulled out the motel room key, his hand wet and cold, and slid it into the lock, disappearing inside. Dean followed after him after picking a few more things up from the back. Just as Dean walked inside, John passed him to go back out to the car, having dropped his bags onto the kitchen table.

Exhausted, Dean went on autopilot and after setting his and Sam's luggage onto the bed, he walked his groceries into the kitchenette. Still wearing his snow-covered jacket, he started to unpack and place things into the fridge and cabinets. His cold face had started to warm and as he reached up to throw a box of cereal up into a cabinet, he stretched his face - widened his eyes and yawned - with a quick shake, his mind blank.

Suddenly, he heard a scream and shout come from outside the motel room and Dean snapped his head around, dropping the cereal and bolting out of the kitchen. He banged the motel room door open and heard his father shout.

"Sam! Come on!" John's voice was commanding; the voice that both Dean and Sam would ordinarily hear and jump to attention. Things were not ordinary anymore, though, and Dean's heart sank as he saw John holding his hand out to Sam. Sam was on his back against the snow-covered muddy ground next to the car's backseat. The wheelchair was standing nearby, angled to face the open backseat door – the side where Dean had left Sam. Sam was staring at his father, shaking his head, crying and struggling to back away from him.

"No, no, I know it's not you. Please please let me go home!" Sam yelled in desperation. His voice was high and it cut through the stagnant, frigid air as the snow poured over him.

"Dad!" Dean shouted, alerting him of his presence as he ran up to them. He looked up at his father with worry, and noticed the tortured look in his eyes. He coughed.

"Dean you have to get this," he mumbled gravely.

"Yeah I got it," Dean said immediately as he watched his father cough again, turn around, and head back to the motel room. Dean bent down low, a few feet away from his terrified brother.

"Sam…  _Sammy!"_  He added more sharply when Sam just kept following their father with his eyes. At the second mention of his name, Sam snapped back to Dean, scared and bewildered.

"You know it's me here, right?" He asked.

Sam, still scared, his eyes wide and unblinking, started shivering. He nodded his head though.

"Can I get you inside?"

Sam nodded again, fast and frenetic.

"All right," Dean said softly and bent up from his position. He hovered over Sam, noticed his brother tense away from him, and quickly picked him up before Sam could change his mind. Dean felt Sam contract as the fast movement jarred him. Dean carried him into the motel room and brought him into the kitchen, setting him down in a chair and crouching down to look into his face. Their father was finishing unpacking groceries in the kitchen and Dean pointed to him.

"Sam – that's Dad. That's always going to be Dad. You trust that it's me, right?" Dean asked, knowing the answer. He'd gone over this with Sam at the hospital, but he had the patience of a saint when it came to his little brother. It wasn't really so with John, though, and Dean didn't know what to do about that; he could only deal with one disgruntled family member at a time.

Sam, still shivering, was looking only at Dean and nodded.

"Okay. If you trust it's me, then you would trust what I say. And I'm telling you – that's  _for real_  Dad. You don't have to be afraid, okay? Not ever. Not anymore," Dean said slowly, genuinely. He felt uncomfortable with his father listening in. The kitchen echoed the sounds of grocery bags crinkling, John's movements as he casually opened and closed cabinet doors and the refrigerator, and the water dripping off Sam's oversized puff jacket onto the yellowing linoleum floor. Finally, Sam stole a glance away from Dean and up to John, then back to Dean's wide, insistent eyes. Sam sighed and nodded.

Dean folded his lips underneath each other in a split-second expression of worry, but bypassed it with a quick smile.

"Okay," he said, standing up over Sam and leaning over to unzip Sam's jacket. Sam let him and Dean soon saw that Sam was shivering a lot more than he thought he was – the puff jacket had hidden the shakes in its massive folds. Not to mention, the t-shirt Sam was wearing was wet with snow down the back. Sam must have brushed snow into his collar when he had been backing away from his father on the ground. His cargo pants were soaked, too, Dean knew.

"Ah you're freezing and wet..." Dean murmured as he observed his brother. A cabinet door slammed shut with unusual force and Dean reacted, looking away from Sam to his father.

"Everything's set. I'll be back," John said monotonously, folding up the collar of his jacket (which he hadn't taken off) as he prepared to go. Dean gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze right before he left him in the kitchen, following his father out into the main room.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Dean asked, completely confused. John stopped and turned around.

"I can't tell you."

"What? Is it… Is it  _him_?" Dean pressed with a whisper, picking up on his father's intensity. John pulled up his luggage and Dean's eyes widened. "How long are you going to be gone? Dad?" Dean asked, a hint of desperation altering his pitch.

"I'll be in touch. Take care 'a Sammy," John said, an air in finality in his tone.

"Dad? Dad!" Dean's second call was in near-panic, not knowing how to deal with his father abandoning them, abandoning Sam.

Without a backwards glance, John walked out into the silent, snow-covered night. Dean followed him only so far as the threshold of the motel room door. He saw his father's face as he turned and got into the driver's seat of the Impala – focused and serious, but not quite determined or sad. He seemed indifferent.

The headlights flashed on and blinded Dean. Dean held up a hand to guard his eyes, still trying to see his father through the windshield. The engine turned over. The weather made the car's metal groan and its engine wheeze. Dean heard the crackling of ice and gravel as the car backed out and turned out. Dean watched the Impala until it was out of sight, feeling like something he urgently needed had just been stolen from him.

…

Bereft of his only source of support, downcast and abandoned, Dean walked into the kitchen.

"SAM!" He shouted in panic, spotting his baby brother flat against the cold kitchen floor. He ran to him and flipped him around. Sam jerked and opened his eyes. "Sam? Sammy you okay?" Dean asked, letting Sam remain on the floor for a few seconds more. Sam gulped slowly and blinked.

"Yeah, sorry," he managed to get out. He raised his hand up and Dean took it and felt a shiver pass through Sam into him.

"You're way too cold; let's get you cleaned up, okay?" Dean said as he helped Sam up.

"Okay," Sam breathed. His fatigue and temperature were draining him fast and as he tried to stand with Dean's help, he started to lose balance, disoriented, and crumpled.

"Hey-hey-hey no-no-no," Dean said gently as he grasped Sam under the armpits as he almost fell, "-let's  _not_  do the floor again, okay?" Dean murmured as he ducked his head under one of Sam's shoulders and pressed forward, making Sam lean over his back. He gripped one hand under Sam's knees and managed to pick him up, leaning backwards so gravity would work to keep Sam leaning over his shoulder. Dean moved to a bag of groceries on the bed that his father hadn't unpacked and pulled out cheap box-brand bubble bath powder and shampoo. He headed to the bathroom and felt his brother give an involuntary shiver against him. He pressed his forearm against Sam as a reassuring gesture and turned on the lights in the bathroom as he walked in, then shut the door closed with his foot.

The tiny bathroom was similar to the kitchen in that the floors were yellowing and the wall paper curling with age. The dim lighting set a soft, comfortable atmosphere, though. The tub was relatively large and, well, Dean had seen worse. It was set into the wall, the porcelain an ugly dark-peach putty shade and it had an ugly hard-water stain that trailed down the center and expanded around the drain. It wasn't dirty, though, and Dean decided it was fine for their purposes. He settled Sam onto the closed toilet seat next to the tub and took off his jacket, throwing it on the sink counter, then rolled up his sleeves. He kneeled down between Sam and the tub, turned on the water, and tested the temperature.

"Dean, can I just sleep?" Sam asked in a small, scratchy voice. Dean glanced up at Sam and gave a double-take, soon moving from the faucet and pulling his brother's slouched position back up by holding Sam's chest lightly on both sides.

"Hey you with me?"

"Yeah," Sam replied in a long undertone, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"'Kay, yeah I'll get you to bed, but let's warm you up – and clean you off," Dean added, looking at Sam's hands and face which were covered with freezing muddy slush that he'd picked up from having been on the ground outside. "Okay? Plan?"

Sam huffed a sigh and nodded.

"M'just really tired," Sam murmured conversationally, lulling his head over to the other side of the bathroom.

"Yeah yeah," Dean replied absentmindedly as he picked up the bubble bath and poured a generous amount into the tub and swished it around. The tub was about one third filled and Dean turned to Sam.

"Okay c'mon," Dean said as he helped to undress his brother.

Ordinarily, this would have been awkward – both of them at ages where immodesty can offer mortifyingly embarrassing moments. To be fair, Dean never picked up on this throughout his adolescence, though. However, before Rennolds, Dean had noticed Sam's building discomfort and made an effort to give him as much privacy as he could.

As Dean had thought earlier in the kitchen as he clarified and reconfirmed their father's existence to his traumatized little brother, things weren't ordinary anymore. Sam was too frail, cold and tired to do this himself, and he was completely unable to drum up any sense of embarrassment. There was no need for it, either, and Dean simply felt his heart sink lower and lower at the sight of his brother's weak, battered body as they discarded piece after piece of clothing. He had to make sure Sam wouldn't lose balance off the toilet seat as he got him undressed.

Finally, Sam was good to get in and Dean made a joke about Samsicles as he helped his brother up from the toilet seat in order to step into the tub. Dean stood over Sam, spotting him, as Sam looked down to his feet in the water. Slowly, Sam tried to kneel to get down to the floor of the tub, reaching his hands out to maintain balance with the wall and Dean's forearm. He lost his strength halfway; Dean caught him and finished out the movement, letting his brother get his legs out from under him before setting him down completely.

Dean felt vindicated as Sam let out a breath of relief and satisfaction from the water's warmth. He laid back against the back of the tub in the water, his eyes closed. Dean licked his lips and smiled mischievously as he grabbed a soft sponge, filled it with water in the tub, then brushed it messily down Sam's face starting at the top of his forehead.

"Bleh, ah! Dean!" Sam whispered and sputtered in laughter as he tried to bat his brother's hand away.

"What, you don't like that?" Dean kept his voice low, too, careful not to bother Sam with too much noise. He was chuckling, though.

"No, I don't," Sam smiled, his eyes still closed. He raised his hand and lightly splashed down on where he'd thought Dean's hand with the sponge had been resting. Dean had been too fast, though, and pulled away, starting to laugh again. "Stop it," Sam said again just as Dean had filled the sponge. He raised it back over Sam's face.

"Dean," Sam called, genuinely bothered, and opening his eyes a little bit to see the sponge hovering over him. "Stop – Stop," Sam called weakly, batting Dean's forearm. Dean was still chuckling as he gripped Sam's wrist from batting him away and held it so he couldn't continue.

"C'mon no, cool it - this won't be nearly as annoying. Close your eyes," Dean replied kindly, smiling, and Sam closed his eyes. Dean let go of Sam's wrist and cleaned Sam's face, neck, and shoulders free of mud.

Sam was compliant and silent, his eyes closed and emitting slow, steady breaths. Dean was kind of surprised he wasn't joking around with him while he cleaned him off. Dean finished and pulled out the shampoo and a giant-sized plastic cup with Buzz Lightyear and Woody featured around it. He started in on Sam's wet mop of hair, gently wetting it down with clean water in the cup and rubbing the shampoo in.

Sam gave a deep, surprised inhale at the water pouring down his back and opened his eyes.

"What?" He asked, groggy, pulling himself up higher against the back of the tub. Dean stopped messing with his brother's hair as he washed it, leaving it briefly as the Mohawk he'd sculpted it into.

"Did you fall asleep?"

"Did I?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a chuckle, indifferent, as he resumed. Dean followed his brother with his hands as Sam moved to sit up, hunch over, and cross his legs under the sudsy water. He sniffed a few times, rubbing his eyes a little bit and covering his face with his hands when Dean poured water over his head, clearing his hair of shampoo.

"Okay don't fall asleep I'll be right back," Dean said softly when he was done. He got up from the hard floor of the bathroom sorely. He was about to leave when Sam called out.

"Hey Dean-"

"Yeah?" Dean held the door, but closed it slightly so the cold air wouldn't seep in.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asked clearly, his implicit message sounding off: Dad should be here.

Dean just stared at Sam like a deer in headlights.

"He's um…" Dean wracked his brains for a cover. "He picked up a hunt. Just like… A day ago. The family's in a lot of trouble – it was an emergency. He had to get to them – he'll be back soon though."

Sam had looked back into the bathwater as Dean explained and nodded when Dean had finished.

"Okay," Sam replied. His voice echoed a little in the small bathroom and Dean gave a breath. Sam was compromised; if he had been firing on all cylinders, Dean knew Sam would've spotted the lie immediately.

Dean opened the bathroom door quickly and stepped out, closing it behind him so the cold air wouldn't flow in. He walked to Sam's duffel and pulled out what he knew to be Sam's favorite lounge-wear: a pair of awful mustard-yellow sweatpants with elastic bands around the ankles that Sam would stretch under his feet when he was cold; an old Batman Returns graphic tee that used to be Dean's; and a beat-up dark maroon zip-up hoodie. Adding in underwear and socks, Dean casually walked back into the bathroom and helped Sam out of the tub, making sure he wouldn't slip on the floor after stepping out. After a short towel-dry, Sam was dressed.

"Ready to pass out?" Dean asked and Sam gave a huff of laughter.

"Yeahhh," he replied in an undertone, sounding completely worn out.

"Can you walk it?" Dean asked, his arm on Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah I think I can, now," Sam answered honestly. Dean spotted Sam from behind him as he sauntered to the door. Dean leaned over him to open the door for him and Sam tensed as the cold air from the rest of the motel room blew past him. Dean heard Sam hiss, but didn't say anything because Sam had already moved past the threshold, heading straight for the bed. Dean followed and opened the bedspread before Sam reached it. Sam hunched over, reaching for the bed before he got to it, relishing the thought of getting there. Finally he felt the (relatively) soft fresh linens as he slid himself into bed and caught the pillow with both hands to lay his head down. Dean draped the bedspread over Sam for a second and went to get changed himself.

Grabbing the remote, he opened the bedspread again to reveal Sam, who woke up a little bit and looked up at his brother.

"Move over," Dean said playfully.

"What? Use Dad's bed," Sam murmured.

"I don't want to take his bed, he might be back tonight," Dean lied. This was an easier lie, as half of it was true. He just wanted to be close to his brother. As Dean spoke, Sam had already started to move further to the other side of the bed and Dean got in and moved down, repositioning the pillow into a good spot behind him so he could watch TV. He flicked it on and turned to channel eighteen, the TV Guide Network's Prevue Guide channel. After looking through it, he determined his options.

"Okay. The Meteor Man, Cool Runnings, or Tremors?" He asked Sam, who was lying face-down next to him. He wasn't really expecting a response.

"Cool Runnings, definitely," Sam mumbled, smiling.

"I was thinking Tremors-"

"Tremors is gonna wake me up-"

"No it won't!"

"Yeah when they shoot the thing with the elephant guns in the basement," Sam said sleepily.

"I'll turn it down at that part," Dean compromised, and flicked to the channel for UPN.

"Okay," Sam breathed and relaxed back down to his pillow.

As the movie played through, his sleeping brother kept inching closer and closer to Dean every time he moved around in his sleep, unconsciously gravitating towards Dean's warm body. Dean didn't mind (Sam actually smelled pretty good, now), and eventually Sam was completely spread out against Dean's side, his head under Dean's shoulder.

Dean's concerns, at least for the time being, were lost in the movie's plot as he lightly rested his hand against Sam's back, his sense of responsibility (and worth) restored.

When the movie finished playing, Dean flicked back to eighteen to see what else was on when he felt Sam's hand deliberately flop down against his chest. Dean squinted and looked down at his side to his brother.

"What time is it?" Sam muttered out, his voice muffled through the pillow he was lying on. Dean looked at his watch.

"Uh… Midnight," Dean replied gruffly.

"You should sleep," Sam said sleepily.

"What're you, my dad?"

"Yes," Sam deadpanned. Sam smiled against his pillow. Dean gave a long sigh.

"You're so weird."

Sam heard the TV turn off and Dean scooted further down into bed, lying on his back. Sam was faced away from Dean on his side, and shuffled closer towards his brother to lean his back against him. Dean put his arm under Sam's head and wrapped it around until his hand rested along Sam's side. This was an old,  _old_  position they'd had when they were young. Neither of them felt weird giving it a comeback… If only for that night.

For the first time in a little over a month, Sam fell into a deep sleep.


	9. February 20th, 1996

North Carolina Department of Social Services

2/20/1996

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT

CASE FILE DW/W6891-2012

**Transcript Taken** : 2/20/1996

 **Source** : cassette recorder - Walkman.

**Caller:**

John Winchester (father)

Location: Unknown

Phone Number: Unknown

**Recipient:**

Dean Winchester

Westgate Motel, Room 12.

1716 Crawlott Avenue.

Raleigh, North Carolina.

(555) 555-5555

 **Summary:** The following pertains to Dean Winchester's joint request for emancipation and guardianship of Samuel Winchester (Brother; Case File SW/W6891-2013).

 **Notes:** Duplicate copy filed under Samuel Winchester CF SW/W6891-2013

-START OF TRANSCRIPT-

1/ 19/ 1996.

Call initiated by John Winchester at 1:25 PM EST.

Dean Winchester: Dad! Dad where the hell are you?

John Winchester: Hey Dean. I'm working.

Dean Winchester: Sam just got out of the hospital and you're working?

John Winchester: Is Sam near you? Can he overhear?

Dean Winchester: No.

John Winchester: Dean, I'm trying to - -.

Dean Winchester: Dad. Sam and I need you. I want to - - -, too, but now is not the time for it.

John Winchester: No. Sam's got you, Dean.

Dean Winchester: Is that what this is about? Is this jealousy?

John Winchester: Stop talking, Dean.

Dean Winchester: Maybe I'm not making myself clear. Sam needs you. Sam needs you.

John Winchester: I'll try to make it back to you two when I'm finished.

Dean Winchester: You'll try?

John Winchester: I think I have a lead on - - - that's aligning with -.

Dean Winchester: What?

John Winchester: I can't explain it all to you right now. It's not safe over the phone.

Dean Winchester: So what you're going to be gone indefinitely? For how long?

John Winchester: I don't know. I can't explain it all over the phone. It's not safe.

Dean Winchester: Well, you're right. I'm recording it as we speak.

John Winchester: Why the hell would you be doing that, Dean?

Dean Winchester: Because you're abandoning your twelve year old son, you son of a bitch.

Call terminated by John Winchester at 2:00 PM EST.

-END OF TRANSCRIPT-

**Redacted portions approved by Dean Winchester and appointed council on 2/20/1996**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXPLANATION: So, the date that Dean files for emancipation and guardianship is February 20th, 1996.  
> Timeline: Feb 15 - Sam gets served by his bro out on the sidewalk, Feb 16 - Dean writes the letter. Feb 18 - Sam reads the letter.  
> So whatever happened between Sam and Dean after Sam has read Dean's letter, two days later, Dean has started to provide evidence to support his case to be Sam's legal guardian by discrediting John. Also, Dean is now 17; his birthday was Jan. 24th.
> 
> When this story was first published on fanfiction.net, I left the explanation out for awhile but too many people didn't really get it - so I just thought I'd skip that part and give my fellow AO3-ers a leg up on this, haha.


	10. January 16th, 1996

The lights seemed to blind Dean just as his body gave an involuntary shiver at the cold air slamming against his naked back as the blankets were ripped off him and Sam in the backseat of the car. He blinked a few times, squinting up, and realization hit him: they were at the hospital. He jarred Sam as he scrambled up, but Sam didn't react. Dean's knees digging into the seat on either side of his brother, he pressed up around Sam's back and lifted, hoisting him up to the reaching arms of the nurses and attendants now gathered outside. As soon they gripped him, Sam was gone and Dean nearly fell forward onto the street before catching himself, his palms spread out on the leather interior. The nurses and attendants made quick, expert work of pulling him up to a gurney and wheeling him away, leaving Dean breathing heavily, staring out after them. He felt empty and scared, stunned and staring after Sam. He numbly looked around and down, finding his shirt from the floor of the seat well. He grabbed it and pulled it on just as John ran around to face Dean from outside of the car. Slamming the top of the car as he ducked down to look at his son, John snapped Dean out of it with one hand outstretched.

"Dean, Dean  _hey!_ " Dean flinched and looked at his father's face, and then the keys dangling closer to his eyes that John had been holding out to him. "Park the car, Dean,  _hey!_  Dean it's going to be okay, all right? I gotta go in there. Can you park the car for me?"

Dean gulped and nodded, his eyes flashing to his father for a split-second, then gripping the keys and jumping out. John had just reached the rotating glass door of the E.R. entrance when Dean had slammed on the accelerator to go find a parking space.

…

Dean was sitting in a chair in the waiting room, staring at nothing and fidgeting with the keys to the Impala. It was four in the morning. The doctor had been in and out with the diagnosis. It was bad, but Sam would reach consciousness soon. Now was the waiting part.

It was quiet. His father had gone to get himself and Dean coffee downstairs in the cafeteria. Dean had already been down there: it felt unreal. The cafeteria had been mostly empty, with only some people on their red-eye shift dropping by to pick up another cup of coffee here and there. He felt like he'd been moving through thick air - it pressed in on him on all sides. The echoes of the cafeteria's industrial-sized machinery reverberated off the walls and made Dean feel like he was a silent, roaming zombie in an abandoned hospital.

He had moved quickly to get the snacks he'd wanted to pick up before dashing back out to the E.R. where he and his father had settled themselves in a quiet corner to wait for word.

Dawn was breaking through and Dean could hear the muffled sounds of birds starting to chirp. They sounded like stagnant echoes; sharp and hollow.

…

"He's awake," the doctor said.

They said they'd only allow one family member at a time. Apparently, Sam was easily overwhelmed: he had reacted negatively to the hospital staff a couple times, now. "Agitation," they called it. He had been, "agitated," upon waking.

Dean wanted to go first, but when John stood, he didn't dare challenge his father. He watched John walk down the hall without so much as a backward glance to his eldest. Dean bit his lip as he watched his father go through the swinging doors into the aisle of rooms.

Dean was on the edge of tears: his father was about to reunite with the son he loved so much more. He was so relieved and scared for Sam: he himself loved that kid more than life. But knowing, not just suspecting, that John loved Sam more was an overwhelming truth. He didn't want to lose his father; he really didn't. But now that John had Sam back, Dean wondered what role he would play in all of this – the aftermath.

Would John become a better father to Sam and kick Dean out? Were the threats of leaving him alone, without Sam, come true, now? Sam would probably be okay with this plan: Dean had let Sam get kidnapped in the first place… So how could Dean blame the kid if he didn't trust him anymore?

Dean looked up, trying to hold in his tears. He couldn't believe his was being so selfish: Sam was in the hospital after having been captive to a psycho witch and Dean… Dean was here, in the waiting room, terrified of abandonment.

Trying to calm his nerves, Dean rocked back and forth in his seat for a second, taking regular, simple breaths in and out... In and out... He took a sip of his coffee and sniffed, rubbing his face with his shaking hands as soon as he set the cup down.

He leaned forward, placing his head between his knees, suddenly feeling nauseated. He swallowed a couple of times, his mouth and throat tasting like stale coffee, and kept breathing. Slowly, his stomach felt slightly less woozy as he focused on the tinny sound of the television in the waiting room. He kept himself hunched over, absently listening to the drone of the local news.

...

Dean watched his father step out of Sam's room. John's eyes were tearing and his hand covered his mouth. John was determined to repress what he was feeling – to Dean  _and_  himself. John wished he could cover his entire face; disappear into the darkness behind his lids. Instead he suddenly moved fast down the hall, brushing past Dean.

"Dad?" Dean asked, his voice cracking, feeling his father's rejection reach what felt like a higher peak than he'd thought possible. John turned around, pain and anguish in his eyes. Dean's reflected the same as he saw them.

"Give it a shot, Dean," John finally said in grief. He gave his son a small smile, a small glint of hope and support flashing through his eyes at his eldest son. Dean looked John up and down in the hallway, finally resting upon his father's worn face. He saw that flash in his father's eyes. It wasn't much, but Dean would cling to it. John gave Dean a nod, which Dean returned, and then John started walking down the hall again. Dean swallowed, not knowing what to expect, and turned towards the hospital room.

…

Dean took a breath at the threshold and stepped into the room. His eyes searched for his little brother: the first bed empty, Sam had to be behind the curtained second bed, closest to the window that looked out to the small garden. A little Starbucks booth near the entrance, Dean could see the solitary employee getting his day started and putting on his apron. Six AM was a little early, Dean thought, but then again… Hospitals never closed. And there were so many people – doctors, patients, grieving families and friends – needing a decent cup of coffee after staying up through the night with red eyes and sore backs.

Dean had never been able to sleep in the hospital and this night had been no exception. He had the reddest eyes, the sorest back, but none of it meant anything.

He took another few steps carefully towards the screen that blocked his view of Sam. His nerves were frayed and the sleep deprivation threatened to break him down before he'd even catch sight of his baby brother.

 _This had been a nightmare. This had really been a nightmare._ Dean repeated to himself. Hopefully, it was at an end. He didn't think it had, really… Not with the impression his father had just given him in the hallway. But he hoped. He just hoped. It was a simple wish that he knew wouldn't come true when he gently drew back the curtain.

The metal bearings on the curtain rattled and Sam, who had been staring out into the garden, looked alarmed, almost harassed, as he whipped around and fixed Dean with an unblinking, accusatory stare. Dean stopped pulling the curtains back immediately. Words caught in his throat and, not saying anything, he put his hands up. Sam's glare held him hostage.

Dean's heart had fallen at Sam's reaction… And Sam's eyes: they looked dark, blacker than Dean had ever seen before, really. Obviously pale and weak, Sam seemed like all the power and strength he used to have had been sucked into his eyes – his stare. And that stare, Dean thought… That stare was blank and empty, like a black hole. It scared Dean.

Then, it was gone: Sam looked up and around the hospital room. Dean gave a breath when Sam released him. He tentatively moved closer and placed his hand on the top of the visitor's chair. Giving one more glance up to an oblivious Sam, he readied to settle himself when Sam spoke.

"This is new," he said gruffly. Dean looked up at half-crouch.

"What?" He stood up again, following Sam's gaze around the room.

Sam turned and looked at Dean's open, curious face. Dean watched Sam give him an expression he'd never seen come from Sam: a squint and sneer with pursed lips, followed by a bitter chortle. Sam looked away from Dean again.

Dean was baffled. Did Sam just give Dean a look of impatient condescension? It bordered on malice, too. If Dean could put words to it, it _looked_  like, "You're an asshole. Don't bullshit me."

Dean, brows furrowed in confusion, sat down in the chair and leaned forward. He looked at his clasped hands in front of him: they wound around each other so tightly, his skin looked almost as pale as Sam's.

"Sammy-"

"-Don't!" Sam interrupted, suddenly looking back to Dean, his dark eyes vicious, his words sharp. There was striking anger, fury in it.

Dean stopped short, holding his breath under his brother's hatred.

"I've told you to stop that. How many times have I told you to stop that?" Sam lashed out in a menacing undertone. His eyes blazed, his lips curled in as he spoke.

Dean felt like he'd be slapped in the face. Sure, he knew Sam hated the nickname, but… What the  _hell_?

"Sa- _Sam_ -" Dean started again, biting back a repeat of his little brother's nickname. He swallowed: he loved 'Sammy.' He'd been using it ever since he could remember.  _Maybe letting your kid brother get kidnapped means you can't use big brother nicknames anymore._  Dean felt a lump in the back of his throat.  _No. It's a_ stupid _nickname_ , Dean thought. He didn't have to say it any more. It would be  _fine._

Dean coughed and, having gone through his own inner monologue of rationalization, tried to start again. Before he could continue, Sam flattened down the bed sheets covering his waist and interrupted him as if Dean hadn't even spoken.

"What's on the agenda today? This is pretty elaborate," Sam said wearily, looking around the hospital room, then again fixing his dead gaze upon his brother.

Dean's mouth had opened in shock at his brother's behavior, his face an almost comical expression of pure confusion. A few beats of silence languished as the two brothers looked at each other. Finally, Sam's eyebrow went up in disbelief.

"You okay there?" He snarled, attempting a… Joke? A mean one; Dean saw no genuine interest in his well-being in the question. He even saw the hint of hope from Sam that he would say, 'no.' Dean had never heard Sam sound so malicious. Paired with his dark, gaping eyes, Dean was frightened that he was not only missing something in this conversation, but that he was biting off more than he could chew. This wasn't 'Sammy.' This felt like someone else. Someone Dean could be intimidated by…

At a complete loss for words, Dean got up from his chair. He needed to move. Disturbed, agitated… Whatever you called it… Dean wasn't quitting (like he assumed his father had), but he sure as hell felt more uncomfortable in the company of his brother than he had in his entire life.

Dean turned around quickly, fixing Sam with a penetrating glare. Sam matched his expression, full-on, only Sam looked angry – like he was itching for a fight, craving it. Dean grimaced as he studied his brother.

"Who…  _Are_  you?" Dean spat with conviction. He knew his father had to have checked Sam out – nothing supernatural was going on here. This was just Sam being…  _Oh god_ , Dean thought,  _what if this is just Sam being Sam, now?_

Sam sneered and gave a bitter laugh.

"I'm exhibit A, you ASSHOLE!" Sam shouted harshly at the end, his face reddening, his hands gripping the bed sheets tighter. He'd pushed his chest out at the end of his sentence, trying to get closer to the foot of the bed where Dean stood, just to sound  _that_  much louder to him.

Dean jerked back in shock, mesmerized by Sam's performance. Sam remained in bed, heaving breaths after his outburst, staring daggers at Dean. Dean had to break away eye contact and looked out the window instead, trying to calm himself down. He realized his arms were folded tightly around him, his whole body trembling, hunched in defeat and regret.  _Is this how it's going to be, now?_  Dean wondered, feeling parts of him melt and break and float away into the darkness of Sam's eyes.

Trying to collect himself again, he took a deep breath. He heard the bed sheets' movements as Sam laid back down.

"C'mon,  _Dean_ , let's get this over with," Sam murmured bitterly as he settled down into the bed. Dean picked up on every nuance of this sentence… And there were a lot of emotions and messages in that one simple sentence that started to give Dean the clues he needed. Dean swung around, eyes wide and alert.

" _What?_ " He whispered vehemently, almost angrily. As he spoke, he started coming closer to Sam to clarify exactly what Sam had meant, not wanting to miss a thing. Just as he did, his eyes widened in surprise, his confusion ratcheting up to even higher levels – Sam was shrinking away from him in his bed. Despite Sam's obvious disdain, almost hatred, for him – his smart-ass, malicious expressions and comments. As Dean moved towards Sam, he saw real fear. Sam's breath picked up, the muscles in his jaw clenched in anxiety, the grip he held onto his bed sheets tightened. He looked away from Dean as he approached, pressing the side of his face against the pillow.

Utterly confused, but now extremely worried for his little brother, Dean didn't stop. He moved and finally leaned, almost sat, on the side of Sam's bed. Sam felt the bed dip as he stared off into the garden and Dean could see his little brother's eyes start to glisten.

"Sam-" Dean lifted his hand up, almost about to touch him, when he heard an uncertain humming come from his little brother. "Sam?" The hum sounded like a scream held in, a terrifying noise. "Sam?" Dean asked more urgently, gently grasping Sam's upper arm. Just as he did so, Sam flinched at the touch, but didn't try to get away; didn't scream. Sam let out a pained exhale, his fear having destroyed his heart beat and breath, he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"D-Do you have… To… Touch me f-for this one?" Sam whispered in tears. Sam's head was still turned away, and now pressing hard against the pillow; it was like he was trying to sink his whole body into it… Away from Dean. Dean grimaced as he leaned over his brother further and Sam matched him, shrinking further from him with a gasp of fright.

"Sammy-" He said, but before Sam could snarl back another warning, Dean gently pressed his hand against Sam's forehead. At this, Sam let out a sob and started trembling in the bed.

"Stop please stop-" Sam begged as he cried. He raised his arms to try weakly to get Dean's hands away from him. Dean could feel Sam pressing against him – he felt like Sam's attempts were deliberately weak. Like Sam might halfway-want his presence. Or maybe Sam was just _that_  weak. "Whatever you want to do, let's just  _go_ , let's  _GO_  let's just  _DO IT_!" Sam barked out as he started struggling, moving around without much purpose other than expending his own terrified energy. Dean noticed this, too: Sam was writhing, struggling, but he didn't actually stop Dean from doing anything. Even Dean's touch, which Sam had just  _said_  he didn't want, Sam hadn't issued a hit or slap to get Dean off of him. And although Sam had just shouted directly  _to_  his brother, his head was still strangely turned away. Apparently, he wasn't willing to look into his brother's eyes. Dean bit his lip in distress as he stayed where he was, bracing his little brother in the hospital bed.

"Sam, Sam calm down," Dean replied softly, overwhelmed by grief. What the hell had happened to Sam? What was he  _talking_  about?

"No, let's  _go_! I'm sick of this talking shit!" Sam yelled with so much intensity, it surprised Dean. Dean's heart thudded in his chest as he scrutinized his little brother's behavior, wondering what in the world was happening inside Sam's head.

Anger, though. This was anger – and it was easier to deal with… So Dean dealt with it by doling it back.

"Sam, I said calm  _down_!" Dean shot back, pressing Sam gently against the bed frame for emphasis. Sam immediately did as he was told, which, again, struck Dean. "Good, good, Sammy," he coached as Sam had started to pace his breathing under his brother's hold. Dean saw a tear track down Sam's cheek; he was  _still_  looking away from him, out at the garden.

Dean moved his hand across the side of Sam's tear-stained face. He gently put pressure on it to get Sam to face him; to look into his eyes. Sam's breath picked up and he cringed as Dean came into his line of sight. He started crying again.

"Seriously just get started already… What… I have to look into his face for this?" Sam sobbed, limply pressing against Dean's chest and arms with his hands, trying so hard to look away from Dean's eyes.

Dean's confusion burst at his brother's words; the light went on upstairs, and Dean realized:  _he doesn't think it's_ me. In the midst of this revelation, Dean accidentally squeezed Sam tighter and Sam gasped in fear, actually gripping the front of Dean's jacket, a subconscious move; Sam seemed to still instinctively reach for Dean, even the fake one he thought stood before him, hovering over him.

"No no no no, Sammy," Dean said in comforting alarm, scrambling up and digging his hand under Sam's back in the bed, "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, Sammy it's Dean. I'm real," Dean spoke softly as he lifted Sam up; Sam could've fought back but he didn't. He made a few grunts of discomfort as Dean moved him, shivering in undeniable fear as Dean cradled him in his arms. It made Dean feel like he was taking advantage of Sam's state – everything about Sam's demeanor at the moment screamed defeat and helplessness in the face of what he thought would be another round of torture, but... "It's me, okay? It's real Dean, Sammy, Real Dean," he reassured his trembling little brother. Sam was terrified, but took Dean's advances, curling himself around Dean as Dean held him and rocked him back and forth.

"This is really fucked up," Sam sobbed under Dean's chin. Dean shushed him as Sam slowly,  _slowly_  started to calm down. Dean didn't stop rocking him as he whispered into Sam's ear on the bed.

"We found you in a cabin. You were freezing cold – it was hypothermia – you had been there for a few hours in the basement, under a mattress."

Sam gave a sob under Dean's hold. Dean tightened his grasp and felt around Sam's back to make sure he wasn't too cold without the blankets.

"I threw the mattress off, found you, and Dad and I got you out of there. Do you remember being in the car with me?" Dean asked gently. Sam moved his head, but Dean couldn't tell if he was shaking it or nodding it. "We got you to the hospital and the docs are fixing you up right now. You came to around about ten minutes ago and told Dad to get out. Okay?"

Sam didn't stop trembling and he had stayed awake, listening.

"Okay," he whispered. The utterance held no emotion; monotone.

"Okay. How long will it take for you to know this is real?" Dean asked calmly. Sam started shaking and Dean realized he had started to cry again. "Sammy?"

"Maybe never?" Sam gave a small laugh through his tears and started crying harder in Dean's arms. Dean blinked back tears as he nodded and looked around the hospital room. Holding Sam, he made a decision and took a hand away from his brother to grab the bed's remote. He clicked it to angle the head of the bed higher – its whir drumming through the clean, white, acoustic room. Once it was up about a foot and a half higher, he dropped the remote and, with all his strength, pushed himself up against it with Sam in his arms. Sam gasped and sobbed as the movement jarred his injuries during the rearrangement, but Dean was there to remedy the minor pains as he got Sam to finally lean against his chest in the bed. Sam was in the center, Dean's legs casually splayed out on either side of the bed with Sam in between. Once positioned, Dean leaned them both forward so he could grab the blankets and drape them over Sam when then leaned back together again.

As soon as they got settled, as soon as Dean knew Sam was covered, he started smoothing Sam's hair and finally whispered, "I'll be here forever, okay, Sammy?"

Sam didn't respond; his eyes were staring away from Dean at the wall. Dean wondered if it was a form of emotional shock or something.

"Can you go to sleep like this?" Dean asked after awhile, a little concerned after he'd lifted up to check to see if Sam's eyes were closed and discovered that they hadn't been.

"I didn't… Ahm," Sam coughed. Dean's arm tightened reassuringly across Sam's chest. "I didn't stop trusting you."

"That's good," Dean replied sleepily, his own watery eyes angled at the garden outside. He kept smoothing Sam's hair with his other hand, knowing it always used to put Sam to sleep as a child. Dean caught himself: Sam still  _was_  a child.

Those eyes, though, made Dean feel like he wasn't so sure anymore.

"I… Rennolds…"

Dean tensed a little bit at Sam's words. Sam felt it and moved a little awkwardly in response.

"No no it's okay keep going," Dean whispered lightly to Sam, clasping him back to where he was. Sam stopped and settled against Dean again.

"Rennolds would look like you and… And I never stopped trusting you," Sam finally got out in a dull whisper. Two seconds later, Dean could feel Sam start crying again. Sam turned on his side to face the window and hugged Dean around his chest. Dean pursed his lips together as those words sunk in; he understood, now. He hated it, but at least he understood, now.

Both brothers stared out into the garden, trying to blank their minds. Sam was still slightly rigid against Dean; still slightly distrustful of the whole thing. Dean didn't blame him.

…

On the second day in the hospital, Dean looked at his brother from the visitor's chair. He had seen Sam sleeping countless times (pretty much every night of Sam's life), but unlike all the rest, Sam didn't look peaceful. He looked haggard, jagged, and sharp. His mouth had always frowned when he slept, but right now Dean saw the expression in a different way. He looked unhappy. Not distressed, not worried: he wasn't having nightmares. He just looked… Ruined.

Dean would keep swallowing his breaths when his heart made a skip in sudden panicked moments of sorrow. He wiped his eyes before they could produce tears. His nasal passages would pierce through him sometimes, forcing him to think he was going to start crying, but he bit it back every time. To distract himself, he would start coughing, sniffing, grunting. Vocalizing pulled him back into reality:  _where people don't cry_.

Yet, Dean honestly couldn't help it. Every time he looked at his baby brother, he was worried something in him had broken… And that that's why he looked the way he did.  _Maybe never._  Those were Sam's words. At every repeat of the memory of those words, Dean's heart constricted, feeling a metal wire's final knot.

Dean hoped that maybe he was projecting - That instead of Sam having become broken, it was in fact  _him_  that had broken through this ordeal. Dean would be fine with that.

 _Please let it be that_ , Dean begged to… No one.


	11. January 20th, 1996

Dean was blissfully unaware, silent and sleeping, in the other bed closest to the door of the motel room. The familiar sounds of the refrigerator humming in the kitchenette and Dean's breathing had steady rhythms. The occasional car drove past them outside, whipping through the road's puddles from the drizzling snow. Sam's mind held him captive in the darkness as he lied in bed, trying to sleep.

 _One step forward, two steps back_.

_No, it's not like that. Dean says it's not like that._

_Dean is who he says he is._

_So when he says that it's not like that, it's not._

_But when I see his eyes when he looks at me…_

_Something's different. I know because he can tell._

_I know because I know what Dad knows. I know about the demon blood._

_Dean doesn't know._

_He already looks at me like… He already looks at me like he knows._

Sam felt tears drip lazily down his cheek as he bit his lip and stared upwards into nothing, staying still in the center of the bed.

_He's already starting to look at me like I'm not me. Already starting to look at me like I'm…_

_Like I'm contaminated._

_Like I've been tainted by something so disgusting and putrid. Filthy and evil… Depraved and inherently corrupt._

_I have my mother's murderer's blood_ _**inside** _ _me, running_ _**through** _ _me._

_I have my mother's murderer's blood_ _**inside** _ _me._

Overwhelmed, Sam felt like he was going to be sick. Huffing heavily, trying to regulate his breath, he squeezed his tearing eyes shut and opened them wide to roll over to the side of his bed. The blankets and linens were starched, scratchy, cold. He leaned his head over the side in case he had to throw up, weakly reaching for the trash bin under the bed stand: he wouldn't make it to the bathroom. Besides, he didn't want to wake his brother up in the other bed.

Sam's stomach rolled and twisted as he lied on his side facing away from the motel door; away from Dean. Beads of sweat collected and rolled off Sam's forehead onto the stained carpet below as he tried to get himself under control. He gulped air and tried to clear his head in the dark, his heart beat racing. He could smell, almost taste, the stale, smoky scent of the carpet; it didn't help the nausea.

He hoped to god Dean's hadn't caught his, or his beds', movement. He couldn't imagine it had; he didn't hear anything coming from Dean's side and it was black as pitch in the room. Sam was too scared that he'd wake Dean up if he checked the time; it was probably around two or three in the morning. Sheer pain and anguish marked his expression; his thoughts reeling through him like a track on loop.

In one short flash, the repulsion he felt towards himself was soon washed away as another thought waved into his head, taking his breath away, then crashing against him like a wall.

 _Dean can't know!_ Sam screamed to himself with urgency and panic. The shame and fear he felt at the thought of his brother learning the truth about him was terrifying.

_Oh god, Dean can't know. I can't tell him. He can't know what I am…_

_He can't know that I'm a 'what,' and not a, 'who,' now… If he finds out... He'll_ know…

…  _And… Then… No one will…_

Sam's body gave a jolt under the blankets as he bit back a sob. He felt tears drip from his face and fall onto the carpet below. He gave a shaky inhale and tried to finish the sentence in his head.

_And then no one will trust me. No one will believe me. I… Dean wouldn't believe me if I promise I'll be good. I would, too. I would tell him in this shitty motel room. I would tell him to turn off the tv. And then I would sit down and he would know I was about to say something important. He'd sit next to me and put an arm around my shoulders. I would look around through blurry, teary eyes to take in my surroundings; to take in Dean's last gestures of comfort. And then I'd tell him, crying. I'd feel him go rigid once he figured out what I was saying and I'd feel his body recoil slowly. I'd feel the slight dip to his side of the bed lift as he moved away from me and I'd yell and scream to him that I promise that I'll be good. I don't care – I'd beg and shout and promise with every ounce I had. And he'd just stand there in front of me, looking at me with loss and confusion. The dim yellow light of the motel's lamp shades would cast his expression and the next time I finally look up at him for forgiveness, I'll see hate._

_He would hate me. Dean would… I would beg him not to hate me, but he'd just look at me like a thing…_

_A thing that deserves to die. Because any part of mom's killer should die._

_And I have part of mom's killer in me. It's part of who I am._

_He would tell me we weren't brothers any more. He'd say that and I'd get worse and try to get to him but he'd pull away as I stagger brokenly towards him… like I was infected. I'd keep going, with parts of me dying at every step forward until I back him up and he has to push me away. I wouldn't have the strength to stay standing at that. I'd fall; collapse to the disgusting carpeted floor of this disgusting motel room and realize that now – right now – right that instant - is when I'll always be able to pinpoint when my life was over. Dean wouldn't care. He'd leave me on the floor and go take a drive. And that'd be the first time he'd ever done that._

_The rest of my life I'll… I won't have anyone. After Dean knows, I'll lose him forever. And I'll have to start living like the thing that deserves to die. Because I'm_ not _… I'm NOT going to turn evil._

_And then I'd have to keep living._

Sam gasped a little and squeezed his eyes shut even more, fisting the covers beneath his hands in angst.

_I'll lose Dean and then because Dad would say so, he'll still have to take care of me._

Again, Sam's body gave a lurch at this idea, the tragedy playing out in his head, breathing heavily and gulping down waves of anxiety. Silent tears dripped down Sam's face and he worked so hard to control his breath.

_If I told him, I'd lose him._

_He wouldn't talk to me in the car when he picks me up from school. He wouldn't watch movies with me in the motel anymore._

_He wouldn't save up money for us to go see movies together anymore. He wouldn't even come if I started doing it instead. I'd call to him as he's about to leave the motel room and ask and he wouldn't even look into my eyes anymore. He'd just say no. I'd try to recover: "It's okay if you don't have the cash. I saved up… I just want someone to come with," I'd say. Still not looking into my eyes, he'll still say no._

_He won't take care of me when I'm sick._

_He won't tell me the bullies at school were jerks for messing with me._

_He won't wake me up from nightmares anymore. He won't let me wake him up after I've had nightmares._

_He won't ever ask me to talk… And he'll stop talking to me. He'll stop making lame jokes._

_He won't listen. Even if I yelled, he won't listen; he'd just leave because he always has the car._

_I'd see nothing but contempt and resentment in his eyes._

_He'll ignore me when I ask questions._

_Oh god. He won't tell me about Mom anymore._

_He won't call me, 'Sammy,' anymore._

Sam let out a long, shuddering breath over the side of the bed.

"Shit…" Sam whispered to himself, stunned at the intensity of his body's reactions. He felt dizzy, and realized he was nearly hyperventilating – inhaling and holding it until he had to let go again, hoping it would stifle his sobs.

He felt overheated, completely red-faced and sweating with anxiety and fear. Trying to blink away his free-flowing tears, he lifted himself up a little bit on the edge of the bed to make himself more comfortable. He started huffing audibly – heavily – to bring his nausea back from the brink again – this time he didn't care if he was loud; he couldn't throw up – he just couldn't. His stomach rebelled at that minute: flipping and twisting. It felt like a belt had been wrapped around his waist and pulled tight. He grunted in pain, almost gagging, and tried to muffle it by turning his face into the pillow. Sam closed his eyes and the sound of his own breath rushed up around him, penetrating the rough, cheap sheets and pillowcase. The fabric warmed under his slow, punctuated exhales; he felt the pillowcase dampen from tears; the bed shaking from his body. He brought up his hands and clutched either side of the pillow, gripping so hard, his heart thumping in fear that Dean would hear; that Dean would find out. At this point, his mind was swarming with so many harrowing doubts and fears that they all combined into one solid bomb of weight lodged in the pit of his stomach, threatening to explode were it not for Sam's steel trap of suppression. He realized his breaths were slightly vocalized, creating a slow, steady, 'uhh,' sound at every unsteady exhale into his pillow, and tried to quiet himself as best he could. Knuckles white, eyes squeezed tight, he tried to override his torturous thoughts – biting and pursing his lips back and forth desperately into the pillow.

"Sammy-?" Sam jumped at the croaky whisper's proximity: Dean was nearly immediately overhead and shuffling towards him from the foot of the bed. Sam let out a restrained sob in his breath in alarm, gasping loudly as he felt Dean's grip on his arms. "Sammy, Sammy what's wrong-?" Dean whispered urgently as he turned Sam over and onto his back. At the movement, Sam cried out, giving a higher-pitched whimper than he thought he was even capable of.

"Sammy, God-" Dean immediately kept one hand on Sam's shoulder and traced it over to his neck as he noticed the shudder that bolted through his little brother's body. Dean reached over in a panic for the bed stand lamp and turned back to Sam. Blinking his eyes to get them to adjust to the light, Dean pressed his hand against Sam's temple and moved the other to his heart.

"Sam you need your inhaler?"

Another high-pitched attempt to conceal a sob broke from Sam's lips and contracted his body. Dean immediately pressed down against Sam's body to brace him from the sob.

"N… No," Sam stuttered, grimacing in pain and folding in on himself.

"Sammy-" Dean whispered, blinking in shock at his brother's sickly complexion, slicked with sweat. Sam's hands loosely touched Dean's over his chest and hiccupped, nearly gagging on another inhale.

"I'm… I'm gonna be sick," he choked out weakly, giving small grunts of pain as he struggled to roll over to the side of the bed.

"Okay Sammy, take it easy," Dean said softly, moving his hands down and away from Sam. He laid one hand on Sam's back, applying pressure as Sam's nausea played out with a dry heaves. Dean waited for it to pass.

Dean's heart was beating fast, concern and worry ratcheting up at the sounds of his little brother's gags. His voice had sounded like he was seven years old: high, wheezy, and fragile. Dean rubbed his eyes free of sleep with his other hand and stared at Sam's convulsing back, his face frozen in a cringe as he watched Sam struggle to throw up. He looked down: his hand placed against Sam, with his fingers spread out, covered half of the kid's back. Dean sometimes forgot how small Sam was – how young. Dean winced, redoubling his efforts to keep his heart in one piece.

The extent to which Sam's body kept contracting at each cough into the waste-basket scared him; he knew how much work Sam's body was doing: his hand moved at every convulsing jerk and sway. Sam looked brittle, about to shatter – completely at the mercy of his body rejecting… Something. Dean couldn't figure out if this was food poisoning; Sam sounded emotional – more disturbed than a bout of food poisoning would bring about. Dean made the reluctant educated guess that this had to do with Rennolds.

Maybe a nightmare.

It didn't matter.

Dean knew in the back of his mind… For all the panic and distress Sam was holding in and reacting to, the kid was still, well,  _his_. For all the world, Sam  _looked_  jagged and brittle, but it wasn't the truth. Sam still trusted Dean. Sam had refused to be conditioned to  _distrust_  Dean. And _that_  was what gave Dean hope.

Dean flinched, breaking out of his reverie as he felt Sam moving. He had gotten up a little to pull his legs in and kneel on the edge of the bed for better leverage over the floor. This wasn't what had snapped Dean back, though.

Sam's back was heaving up and down more now because his dry heaves were turning into full-fledged sobs as he clutched his chest. The sounds were loud; louder than Dean had heard ever come from his brother since he was about five. They cut through the room and pierced through Dean's head like gunshots.

Stricken, Dean's expression morphed into pure empathy; his own eyes starting to water as he leaned over and reached under Sam.

"C'mere," Dean whispered softly, feeling Sam shake and gasp with repressed emotion. At Dean's touch, Sam instantly reached up to land his hands on Deans', which wrapped under his arms and up towards shoulders. Dean pulled Sam gently. His little brother's weightless body was doubled over but malleable under his Dean's guidance. Sam whimpered, trying to speak reassuring words directed for Dean's benefit.

"I- I-" Sam cried breathily, trying to catch his breath in the midst of tears and chokes. Sam felt all his weight shift and become supported by Dean as he lifted him up a little bit further and angled Sam around to face him.

"I'm fine-" Sam cried and gasped again, trembling and clutching himself in Dean's hands. Dean couldn't help but realize how absolutely vulnerable his brother was as he held him up. Sam's bangs dangled down, hiding his lowered face in shame, and Dean made sure Sam was settled, lying across his lap, when he leaned down and pressed Sam's back up so he'd be completely pressed against him. With Sam's last remaining strength, he managed to open his arms and reach for Dean and suddenly broke into tears again. Dean absorbed and muffled Sam's cries and trembling body.

"Sh, Sammy," Dean said calmly, letting Sam's desperate hands to find the best purchase around him as he draped himself over his little brother. Sam shook under him and Dean gripped him closer still, trying to put pressure on his brother in a futile effort to make them stop.

Dean kept Sam there like that: the two of them in a simple embrace on the edge of the bed. Dean started rocking back and forth to get a better rhythm than the broken sobs that punched through the otherwise quiet, dimly lit motel room.

"Shh… Relax…" Dean consoled softly into Sam's ear. Sam tried to quell his sobs by giving muffled, accidentally high-pitched whimpers under him. Dean just remained steady, unconsciously applying and reapplying pressure around Sam as they rocked.

Dean's eyes were closed, his face pressed against Sam's, which was more tucked between his neck and shoulder. He kept them moving in time with his rhythm and it slowly morphed into the beats of, 'Smoke on the Water,' that started playing in the back of his head. Sam was still struggling to maintain his composure, and Dean knew he was still crying beneath him, but he started humming along to the first few chords softly. He put longer spaces in between the chords, transforming it into a lullaby. He felt Sam slowly curl his knees up around Dean's back, fully wrapping himself around him.

Dean felt like an anchor; like every ounce of him was grounding Sam to something more than just 'big brother.' Dean didn't know what it was, but he knew his baby brother wasn't telling him something. He kept it up, though… His Deep Purple baritone hums sounded reassuringly around their huddled forms. Dean couldn't help but start to feel his own comfort level jump a notch as he held his brother securely; covering him protectively; keeping him absolutely and unequivocally safe, if only at this moment. So be it: Dean was honest-to-god coming so close to sleep as he sat, lying over and on his softly weeping little brother. His day had been long: full of meetings with professionals that had challenged his right to guardianship.

For a second, everything went black, and Dean's head suddenly lifted up with a jerk, startling Sam. Dean gave a small cough.

"Sorry," he muttered sleepily, realizing he had just actually fallen asleep for a second. "Okay," he said, making up his mind, and started to lift up.

"Dean!" Sam called, his plaintive, worried cry still making him sound so much younger than he was. He clutched at Dean and Dean instinctively gripped Sam back.

"M'just gonna turn off the light, Sammy," he whispered, then leaned over away from Sam to reach for the light. Sam didn't lose any ground. He clutched Dean with the equal measure. This was fine by Dean, as he used one arm to keep supporting Sam's back and the other to turn off the light. Once done, Dean moved back to the position they had been in before: Dean sitting at the edge of the bed, Sam lying and curled around him, diagonally across his chest, in hiding. Dean sighed as he resumed his hold on Sam and Sam shook again, sniffing.

"Ssssorry," Sam lisped a little bit, his vocal chords raw; his lips not working properly. He started to loosen his grip a little to allow Dean to leave him. As his actions followed through with his thoughts, Sam felt lucky the light was off and Dean couldn't see his lip quiver with the reminder that Dean leaving him forever was now such a real possibility. More than that, it was a probability. The truth always comes out somehow – Sam was now experienced enough to know that.

But then he felt Dean's arms tenderly tighten around him in a silent response to his apology. Sam felt a knot in his chest loosen. Even if he thought he wouldn't get this affection again once Dean found out, it didn't stop him from taking comfort in it now. It was bittersweet, but Sam didn't care just then – he'd get to the point of independence and courage where he could tell Dean and handle the consequences. He'd get there. But not tonight. He just couldn't bare it tonight.

"Shh," Dean hushed sleepily, then relinquished his grip on Sam a little bit. Sam looked up a little, a cinder of doubt beginning to glow: Dean had just had him on. Dean wanted to falsely reassure that the moment would continue in the dark but instead just wanted to give him a short final hug and leave. Sam gave an inward nod of understanding, a single tear slipping through as Sam stole himself for detangling himself from Dean and having to go back to only the thoughts in his head.

Dejected, Sam gulped and felt cold as Dean detached from him. Sam shivered from the cool air in the room after Dean removed himself entirely. Dean's body had always been like a furnace. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, feeling numb and empty, now. He was unsure where to go from there – the idea of sleep was incomprehensible to him, now.

As Sam's breakdown lingered, Dean moved away and Sam realized he was moving in the wrong direction.

"C'mon," Dean whispered lightly in the dark, and Sam could sense Dean was gesturing for him to follow his brother to the center of the bed where Dean had just settled. Sam's heart jumped with hope.

"Are… Are you sure?" Sam asked hesitantly, his voice scratchy. He sounded scared. Dean didn't respond immediately, but Sam heard Dean rustling sheets and then felt Dean lift the blanket up. Dean was expecting him to come up to him and get under them.

"Yeah, c'mon Sammy," Dean said breezily, sounding exhausted now. Sam's heart picked itself up entirely as he tried not to rush too fast from the edge of the bed to Dean's side in the center. He scrambled up, oblivious to Dean's relaxed smile at his little brother's haste, and quickly slid under the covers his big brother held up. Once under, he waited again, not yet sure if he would be allowed to touch Dean while they slept in the same bed.

Sam couldn't tell in the darkness, but Dean's eyes were already half-lidded. Dean lowered the blanket down over Sam once he sensed Sam was in and waved his hand around, expectantly waiting to set down around Sam's back once he'd gotten comfortable on him.

"I… Can I-" Sam asked anxiously; tentatively, as he hovered over Dean. Immediately Sam's voice cut out when Dean heard him and swooped his hand towards him, finding Sam's upper arm. Dean weaved his hand to the side of Sam's torso and pressed him forward towards him. Sam moved along willingly, so deeply relieved to settle and mold himself against his big brother that Dean grunted a little bit when Sam landed on him.

"Sorry!" Sam whispered, worried.

"Sammy it's okay," Dean whispered back with the same even tone. Sam listened to Dean's deep, peaceful breathes above him for a few minutes. Sam knew he couldn't match his brother's breathing; his breathing had always come faster than Dean's. The restful sound still affected him, though, and soon his eyes own eyes were at half mast.

"Sammy," Dean said suddenly, cutting into the room's darkness. His voice was quiet and hinted curiosity.

"Yeah?" Sam breathed.

"You're not telling me something," Dean stated, again in the same lulling tone of voice. Despite his tone, though, Sam tensed at the accusation. He couldn't deny it; he couldn't lie to his brother. So he said nothing.

Dean felt Sam's muscles contract in reaction to what he'd said and respond in kind with a reassuring grasp around his little brother's waist. Sam's breathing picked up as he thought about his secret and Dean felt it.

"Hey, Sam? It's okay, it's okay," Dean said as he reached up and felt his brother's head, carding his fingers through his hair. He felt Sam give a small shudder and Dean pulled the covers up around himself and Sam further.

"I… I can't tell you," Sam cried weakly into his brother's chest. He felt so guilty for everything – he felt guilty for the truth and guilty for keeping secrets… It was so overwhelming.

At this, Dean's arm came back to wrap around Sam's body again.

"Okay. Okay, Sam. Don't worry. Just get some sleep. We just need sleep," Dean trailed off, doing a good job of putting even himself into sleep mode with the tone of his voice. He felt Sam's head give a nodding motion against his chest.

Dean fell asleep thinking about Sam's secret. Whatever it was, tonight had not been the night for sharing. But it was obvious that before Sam could take any further steps in recovering, he'd need to tell Dean what was going on. He'd need to spread the burden, whatever it was, onto Dean. More than ever, Dean was ready to take it on. He hoped Sam wouldn't insist on carrying the devil on his back for much longer.


	12. January 28th, 1996

 

"You okay - you warm?"

"What? Yeah," Sam snapped.

"I was just checkin' – you shivered."

"I didn't shiver."

Dean shot a furtive glance at his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Okay," he replied shortly, yet Dean had recently trained his tongue to hold back any of his usual attitude. Dean pursed his lips and stared straight ahead, controlling himself.

"Quit lookin' at me like that," Sam said out of nowhere.

"What? Sam, I wasn't looking at you," Dean said patiently. He glanced at Sam. "Swear to god."

"Good."

Dean gave a heavy inhale and gnashed his teeth in repressed anger, tilting his head towards the driver's side window so Sam couldn't see. He had no idea what Sam was going through, but somehow, since he'd gotten Sam back from the hospital, his little brother had slowly but surely transformed into the surliest douche-bag Dean had ever laid eyes on – in between his freak-outs where he'd end up clutching Dean like he'd never let go. The grocery store fiasco, for example. That had been rough.

Dean couldn't believe it. It had started with small things, like not doing his dishes and not answering him when he asked him an innocuous question. After calling his name several times over, Dean would repeat the question and Sam would reply with attitude, usually with a monosyllabic word.

And it only got worse when Dean tried to make it better. He went out to the local public library to get a card for Sam. When he came home, he was decidedly rebuffed: Sam didn't want to go out to the library.

So Dean went instead. He had no idea what Sam would like – he asked the librarian for help, explaining that Sam's reading level was way beyond that of a twelve year old. When Dean came back with a full load of books – about ten in total – Sam was furious and told him he wasn't interested.

Dean was passive about the whole thing; he figured if Sam didn't want them, he'd still keep them around since they  _were_  meant for  _his_ reading level anyway. So somehow things were getting reversed: Dean started reading while Sam would watch tv.

Things escalated again when Dean tried to get Sam out of the house and into a new restaurant that had just opened up. Steak dinners – and bacon salads – seemed like an awesome way to motivate both of them to stretch their legs, then sit down and stuff their mouths. Sam was demure, then outright judgmental that Dean would want to waste money like that. John hadn't really come back at that point: he'd stop in every now and again to check up on them, but then he'd leave a day or two later. No mention about enrolling Dean back into school.

Dean didn't mind. What Dean minded was Sam, and Sam would become explosive any time Dean mentioned school to him.

Dean didn't know. How could he? But it was because Sam heard the unspoken push from his brother:  _you loved school before Rennolds took you. Go back to being that person_. But Sam knew there was no going back.

On the nights John took one of the beds, Sam had started to sleep  _literally_  on the edge of the bed farthest from Dean. It was one of Dean's darkest, most embarrassing moments when he'd feigned sleep and tried to pull Sam towards him. Sam turned around and, 'woke,' him up to tell him to get on his side of the bed. Dean couldn't help but cringe every time he thought of that memory.

But, really, what the hell was going on? Sam had never rejected Dean's care before and it left him feeling helpless and ineffective in the one arena hehad always thought he was good at. Apparently not. Not anymore.

Both of them were sinking under the weight of the aftermath. Sam was certain he'd lose Dean if he told him his secret and Dean was certain that he was losing Sam in front of his eyes already.

Dean breathed through his anger towards Sam's attitude and looked over at him, then back onto the road.

"Listen. Sam-"

"Shut up, Dean."

Rage-filled silence.

Dean spun the wheel and pulled the car over as gently as possible over the gravel and dirt. They had been driving past a forest preserve. The driver's side door opened and Dean stepped out, counting to ten in his mind. He disappeared into the wooded area, past the tree line, leaving the door open and Sam still inside the car.

Sam didn't move, his expression a complete mask of indifference. His hands trembled, though, and soon he was growing cold from the cold air whooshing into the car from Dean's open door. Sam leaned over and reached for the handle to shut it. He went back to blowing on his hands and pressing them against the heat vents. After a couple of minutes, he turned on the radio. He clicked, 'seek,' and focused on paying attention to the two-second clips of sound that played before the next frequency came on. He heard something he liked and jumped at it, but he was too late. He was messing with the dials in the car when the driver's side door wrenched open, startling Sam back against the passenger seat, then second-guessing himself and reaching for the radio to turn it off.

"Leave it on," Dean ordered as he slammed the door shut and leaned over the bench seat to grab something from the back. Sam licked his lips, ready for another verbal spar with his holier-than-thou big brother. He realized that Dean was still leaning over the bench seat, though, for longer than normal.

"Dean, what're you-"

Then Dean was back and facing front, one of his thin black t-shirts wrapped around his right fist.

"Dean, what did you do?" Sam asked. Instead of the normal voice of concern, Sam's was harsh and judgmental. It rang like a warning to Dean: _you can't possibly be making this about you, Dean_.

Dean swallowed his guilt and the split-second reactive anger that normally knew no bounds if Sam were ever to give Dean that tone. Come to think of it, Dean had never heard that tone from his brother before.

"S'nothing," he cocked his head lightly to Sam, trying so hard to keep Sam free from feeling for him. "S'just sore."

Dean turned the engine over and pulled back out onto the road.

Ten minutes later, Dean paralleled in the quaint downtown area just north of Raleigh. They both looked around from inside the car and Sam let out an exaggerated sigh of disgust. He shook his head as he looked out the window, pissed.

"I can't… I can't believe this is happening."

"It doesn't look that bad," Dean said as he ducked down to look out Sam's window at the building before them.

"Jane Chandler, Ph.D." was written on the sign in front of a house-turned-office. Made sense. House lay-outs offered comfort to most people, as most people generally grew up in them. Dean bit his lip, realizing this wasn't really the case with Sam. But hey, sofas are comfortable: Sam would probably like the sofa, if there was one. Maybe.

It was Dean's turn to sigh, and he wiped his face with his non-injured hand before taking a deep breath and wrenching the door open with renewed vigor.

"Dean… Dean!" Sam called out, but Dean had already slammed the driver's side door and was on his way around to Sam's side. Dean's expression shifted with concern and confusion as he caught Sam's face through the window as he approached. He moved quickly to get to the passenger door and opened it.

"Sam – Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean asked urgently, not understanding his little brother's sudden look of phobic fear under these circumstances.

"Dean, Dean I don't… I really don't want to go in there."

"Sam we gotta go in, we have an appointment in like five minutes," Dean said gently. "We've pushed this off so many times, now," he added, an undercurrent of desperation swept beneath his words yet way over Sam's head. Sam blinked and stared at the house that he knew would be his undoing. He couldn't let it happen.

"No. I'm not going," Sam blurted with finality.

Dean had just watched his brother's insecurity flip on, then back off, in a matter of seconds. The Sam facing him was, now, the 'usual,' Sam. The Sam that felt like a stranger that never talked, never confided, never drew strength from Dean. This was the Sam that just took without giving Dean the slightest inkling of respect or devotion that naturally came with the territory of providing for a kid since they were six months old. This was the Sam that was, quite frankly, a total asshole. Dean never knew he could be stretched to the limits like this. Honestly, he had no idea where he'd managed to find the patience.

His patience hadn't run out at this very moment, per se, but they were  _right there_. Sam needed something, and Dean, while destroyed inside that he couldn't give it to him, had looked for other options. He'd found Jane was highly recommended; talked to her on the phone about Sam's situation; he had worked on getting the legal documentation set and ready for his father to sign the minute he rolled in from who-knows-where… And now it was go time.

"Sam. Sammy, I'm so sorry, but I'm not letting us leave," Dean said solemnly, enunciating his words and trying to catch Sam's eyes as Sam stared rigidly through the windshield of the car. Sam tightened his folded arms in response.

"Sam. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" Dean asked genuinely, so scared that this would turn into something. His stomach was roiling with the possibility. As he stared at Sam, that possibility was becoming more and more of a probability.

"Sam?" Dean tried one last time. He couldn't believe his eyes were already watering. He was such a wuss. If his father were here, Sam would snap to attention at the order. That was a new thing he did, actually. Only for Dad, though. Dean licked his lips, his eyes deep with regret.

"I'm going to unbuckle your seatbelt," Dean whispered, leaning over Sam. At the mere motion in the seatbelt's direction, Sam's hand shot up and tried to land a punch at Dean's jaw.

Knowing it was coming, Dean caught Sam easily and held his wrist, then caught and held the other one.

"Get off of me! Dean! DEAN!" Sam screeched as Dean pinned Sam's wrists and unbuckled Sam from his seat. "No, Dean, you can't do this! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" Sam yelled as he felt Dean reach beneath him and lift him, bodily out of the car.

Dean was good at handling Sam by now – the grocery store wasn't the only moment he'd had to restrain, or otherwise clobber and transport his brother elsewhere. But Sam was fighting tooth and nail this time… Way more than Dean had expected or even seen before. Sam was _angry_ , and he wouldn't stop wriggling out of Dean's hold.

Dean had to relent and land him back against the side-walk. He placed his t-shirt-woven hand behind Sam's head a split second before Sam would have hit it against the pavement. Sam scrambled to get up from under Dean.

"Sam, C'mon Sam-" Dean murmured as he tried to keep his traumatized, yet very lucid, brother down.

"I'm not going I'm NOT going DEAN!" Sam screamed at him, his eyes blazing.

"Sam, yes you are," Dean said steadily, combating each of Sam's attempts to move out and away. "Yes, you are, Sam, you are," Dean repeated, trying to keep his voice calm. "Are you done? C'mon stop it, stop it!" Dean yelled more urgently as Sam shot out a fist and Dean dodged it, gripping Sam's forearm hard. "Stop it, stop it, Sam, are you done? C'mon now. When you're ready," Dean kept talking breathlessly as he looked down at his red-faced, struggling brother. Sam was starting to huff larger and larger breathes of air out of his lungs, spacing out his punches and escape attempts. His exhales created white puffs of warm air meeting the frigid January temperatures.

"That's it, Sam, big breaths, good," Dean coached, but when Sam finally looked back at Dean, his eyes were cold. Dean only looked back with worry and fear. He swallowed, licked his lips, and whispered.

"You done?"

Sam gave an imperceptible nod and Dean reached under Sam's shoulders to lift him up with him. Dean didn't see the tear that slipped from Sam's eye as he did so, and Sam rubbed it away before it turned into anything. Inwardly steeling himself, Sam allowed Dean to grasp his deadfish hand and pull him gently towards the house.

Jane Chandler was a pretty nice lady. Well-intentioned, sympathetic, and perfect for the average insecure housewife, the Type A sales executive that couldn't manage his time, even the occasional teenager that would tripwire themselves into such aberrant behavior that their parents would put them into therapy. She was deemed, 'excellent,' because she was a sounding board. She was a likeable person – well-rounded and perceptive enough to know when to be lighthearted and when to 'get real' with her clients. She had received her Ph.D. after studying neurology and cognition. The only problem was that, as times went on, her practice seemed to weave away from empirical cognitive studies that could inform recommendations to her clients. Instead, both she  _and_  her clients would build rapport and spend time speculating over more metaphysical matters together. It had been thirty-five years since Jane had left academia to start her own practice. She was comfortable. She was widely considered a thorough professional.

She thought she knew what would be waiting for her at her 10 am appointment. Even if she didn't, though, she  _knew_  she'd be able to help.

Thing was, she was totally out of her league.

The front door opened and the bell above the frame tinkled lightly. She smiled warmly and looked up at a young man who must have been Dean, followed by the little brother, Sam, looking down at the floor.

Jane's smile faltered a little bit at the body language the two of them exhibited.  _Something's off here_ , she thought. Her thoughts confirmed as Dean gave a great big wide  _fake_  smile and grasped Sam's hand tighter, forcing Sam closer to him. Jane couldn't help but wince inwardly.

Then, Sam looked up at her and she couldn't help but wince outwardly, now. Red, puffy eyes drilled into her with pure malice and, honestly, Jane had never seen anything like it before. Disturbed, she looked back up at Dean, who was still grinning as they approached.

"Dean!" She said, finally placing the same charm into her voice and smile as she did with all new clients. She moved around the desk.

"Yeah, hi, Jane," Dean said brusquely, yet relieved, and started to extend his hand. At the sight of it, he stopped and pulled away because it was covered with his t-shirt.

"Oh dear, what happened to your hand?" She asked, both concerned and genuinely curious.

"Ah, nothing," Dean chuckled. Jane chuckled awkwardly along with him, still holding him to an answer with her eyes. Dean sighed when he realized this, and gave an exaggerated shrug.

"A tree ran into my fist!" He laughed. "What can you do, you know?" He added jovially, then turned to Sam as he segued, "Anyway, this is Sam, my little brother."

Jane looked down at Sam, trying not to be intimidated by a twelve year old.

"Hi, Sam, I'm Jane."

"Yeah. I know. I read your sign out there," Sam spat. Jane glazed her smile and nodded. She blinked.

"Yes, well! Would you like something to drink?" She asked, switching subjects quickly. Before Sam could answer, Dean cut in.

"All right. I'm going to leave you guys to it, then. I'll be back at 11 am sharp," Dean snapped both fingers and popped his palm against his wrist. " _Sharp. Sam. Sharp,_ " Dean added with a meaning that was lost on Jane.

Jane watched Dean leave with an easy wave and smile and suddenly felt a little tentative about Sam.

Well, they had about fifty minutes to start off on the right foot. So she figured she'd get cracking.

Needless to say, this was a mistake.


	13. February 13th, 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware & prepared: trigger warning - suicide.
> 
> P.S. I know there's a lack of writer's notes, but I'm just cross-posting as fast as possible at the moment. Please please *do* take the time to comment/review if you feel so compelled. I love to hear feedback! ~ Alex

Dean steeled himself as he stared at the psych rehab center from the driver's seat of the Impala. Rubbing his face, he focused on his breathing and rubbed his eyes to get any extra moisture out of them before anyone could call them tears. He was just frayed; he hadn't been able to go to sleep after getting the call last night around eleven. He asked when he could see Sam and their regulations only allowed visitors between eight am and six pm. Dean had managed to get them to allow seven for him, given the circumstances. And so here he was. On his twenty billionth cup of coffee at six fifty-five AM.

He wrenched open the door and stood up next to his car in the parking lot. Stretching a little bit, he looked confident. He plastered a laid-back, slight smile on his face as he surveyed the parking lot and building. There was a field out back, not a lot of trees around. The sound of an industrial lawn mower was coming from behind the building. Other than that, birds were chirping every once in awhile and the wind made soft howling noises past the landscape. Everything felt depressing here. Dean made an effort not to let it get to him starting the first day he'd brought Sam here… But it had. Sam must've felt the same way.

With that thought, Dean blinked and looked down, losing the smile for a second, and tried to get himself under control.

He knew the plan today. He knew what he was going to do. He was looking forward to it, but it also meant he had proven himself a failure to Sam once again. Sam had already proven that to him, though.

…

Dean walked into the lobby, throwing a slight easy smile to the receptionist as he approached. It was quiet; the ventilation was loud.

"Hey, uh, I'm here for Sam Winchester-?" Dean asked softly, setting his coffee down on the front desk.

"Sure hold on a sec," the receptionist replied, relaxed as she click-clacked on the computer's keyboard.

"Yup I see you," she murmured, referring to the note Sam's doctor had left that approved Dean's early presence despite visiting hours.

The receptionist, Maggie Stein, never barred visitors outright when they walked into the lobby before or after visiting hours. Years of experience in this place had taught her that sometimes it was simply unwise to disallow close friends or family from their loved ones. Under these circumstances, doctors would make a note requesting her to make an exception to the regular hours.

She was happier when she didn't see the exceptions, though. It meant that the patient inside was doing okay. And she cared about the kids in this building. She read down Sam's patient record for a few seconds.

"Ah, kay, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean replied immediately, but with a smooth voice that belied his worry. She gave him a double-take at his overly steady voice. Normally relatives would come in frantic, stressed and scared, tears starting to fall as they waited for her to do her job. She would try to calm them down as best she could, but there really aren't appropriate words. Not ever. Not when you're waiting at a front desk to be told where to go to find a traumatized child you love.

But Dean, she noticed, was holding it together. She could tell he was struggling, but he was hangin' in there.

"All right hold on two seconds for me, Dean," she said kindly, gripping the phone and calling the floor manager. Dean sniffed and nodded. He focused on breathing and stared at the terrible black and white image on the wall behind her. He stared at it until he realized he was looking at either two faces or a vase, depending on which color was in the foreground.

"Dean Winchester's here. Yeah," Maggie looked up to Dean, giving him a tight smile, "He's up? Okay… Oh-Okay. I'll send him up to you. 'Kay bye."

Maggie turned to look at Dean and Dean zeroed in on her. She looked into his eyes sincerely and her words were clear and crisp so that Dean wouldn't have to get frustrated over asking for clarification.

"Go down that hall until you hit the elevator, get up to the fourth floor, hang a right: Sam is in H wing. You'll see the floor manager in the hallway. His name is Arthur and he'll take you straight to your brother."

"Where's Sam in H wing? Room number?"

"Arthur will take you to him; we don't give you that information until you've met the floor manager. It's policy, sorry."

Dean couldn't really be bothered. He nodded and took off in the direction of the elevator. The place felt like a hospital, only just a touch comfier. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Dean liked it  _less_  than he did real hospitals. The softer colors, occasional beat-up couches along the hallways, and the abstract artwork that had been made by troubled teenagers hanging around the walls… It looked like a small lib art school's freshman dorm.

Dean didn't like it. These things were little touches that failed to disguise the smell of industrial disinfectant, the bright phosphorescent lighting everywhere, the heavy whooshes of recycled ventilation, the metal grates on the windows, and the echoes reverberating off tiled floors. All  _those_  little things made up the true infrastructure of the building. Everything else was just window-dressing.

It was window-dressing that he'd bought into two weeks ago.

Dean tapped his foot as he felt the muffled  _flump_  sound the elevator made every time it passed a floor. He looked up and caught his face in the rounded security mirror in the corner. His eyes were dark, his clothes seemed ragged. They were starting to hang off him a little bit. He was pale and his complexion had become a little marred with a small cluster of pimples on his left cheek near his jaw.

Soft rock was playing through the elevator's intercom. "Woo Hoo," by Blur was playing and, frankly, Dean thought it was too early for the song. Luckily, the intercom was at a very low volume.

The elevator ping-ed and Dean looked up, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. This was it.

He stepped out and took a right, searching for Arthur, the floor manager. Eyes wide, walking quickly, he checked the first hallway cross section he came to: nothing. He kept walking down the same hallway until he spotted a man pace into his field of vision. There was another hallway cross-section that the man was pacing.

"Arthur?" Dean called out softly. He didn't want to wake anyone, but he wanted to indicate his presence to the guy. Arthur looked up immediately and started walking towards Dean with a casual kick to his step, extending his hand. He smiled.

"Dean, right?"

Dean took his hand.

"Yeah," Dean replied, continuing to move forward with Arthur's hand. Arthur fell in step easily, moving along with Dean back to the cross-section hallway he'd been in.

"Your brother is in the common room right now."

"Shouldn't he be sleeping?" Dean asked, bothered.

"If he wants to sleep in the common room, he can-"

"Where's the common room?" Dean interrupted.

"Just this way," and Arthur began to lead Dean. A couple seconds passed as they both walked brusquely towards their destination until Dean spoke again.

"Where's Sam's doctor?"

"He won't be coming in for another hour or two."

"You're serious?" Dean asked, indignant, "What, the good doctor couldn't get his ass out of bed after what happened last night?"

"Dr. Elliot was up with Sam until two in the morning with Sam."

Dean almost stopped walking. Just when he thought he could handle hearing more about how messed up his brother was, he had to hear that Sam's doctor stayed up until two in the morning with him. Dean should've been there. Dean wished he could've been there. Maybe, if there were people willing to stay up and talk to him until two in the morning… Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.

…

And that's when they got to the common room. It was a regular wooden door that, Dean could tell, was normally propped wide open for easy in-and-out traffic.

"So this is our common room for Wing H. Sam's the only one in there right now. I'm going to check in on you guys every half hour, okay?" Arthur spoke concisely, cutting through Dean's thoughts. Dean was trying to hold back from looking through the door's small window to see Sam before Sam would be able to see him.

"Yeah, yeah okay sounds good, Arthur," Dean replied quietly, giving Arthur a nod as he moved to the door.

"Okay. I'll be back," Arthur said professionally. He turned on his heels and started walking back down the hall. Dean's eyes were full of regret and sorrow as he strained to find Sam through the window. He didn't see him.

Dean took a steadying breath, rubbed his face in stress again, and slowly pushed the door open, hoping to make sure he wouldn't startle Sam. Dean walked into the room: several couches lined the walls and, in the center to his left, there was a medium-sized television sitting on a desk. Several chairs and one large sofa that could seat about five people made a semicircle around it.

There were some art projects on the right, near a long plastic picnic table (probably IKEA, Dean thought) – construction paper hung off the walls, others had fallen onto the floor. There was a corner with glitter all over the floor, wall and table. Dean made a mental note not to go near it.

The light shafted in across the entire room, but the windows' grates punctured the otherwise clear yellow, early-morning light from filling the room entirely. Dean looked at the long shadows cast by the grates and frowned. For some reason the grates' shadows on the floor and furniture of this room irritated him beyond measure.

After orienting himself to the room, he still couldn't figure out where Sam was. Definitely not in plain sight, that's for sure.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was small, but sounded loud in the large room.

He waited in silence, but tipped his head to the left when he heard rustling – noticed movement.

There was an armchair behind the huge sofa in front of the tv. It was angled towards the windows, not the television or the door. Dean's breath caught for a second and started walking around. He saw a small coffee table in front of the arm chair as he approached. Then the top of Sam's head – his hair was all over the place. Dean had never seen it as uncombed and straggly as it was now.

"Sam?" Dean spoke again softly as he finally got to the armchair and turned himself to face it – to lay his eyes on his little brother. He couldn't help but grimace at the sight of him.

Sam looked sick. He'd lost weight. He was pale. His hair was flipped around and sticking out at weird angles: Dean wouldn't be surprised if it had matted in spots. Sam's eyes were barely open as he fixed them on Dean as Dean had come around to see him.

He was curled up in a ball, about one-third the size of the armchair, and he had a light blue blanket wrapped around him. He wore his ratty grey sweats and one of Dean's old long-sleeved t-shirts: Transformers.

Dean gulped when he saw the bright white bandages peeking out from the sleeves on his little brother's wrists. He sat down on the coffee table in front of Sam, and Sam looked down and covered his wrists with his sleeves after having noticing where Dean had been looking.

"You're up," Dean said. Sam looked up and nodded. He sniffed a second before answering.

"Yeah. They woke me up."

"They shouldn't have done that."

Sam shrugged weakly and fixed the blankets that covered him. He pulled out a roll of toilet paper from somewhere behind him and unrolled some to blow his nose.

"I heard you were up with Elliot until two in the morning."

Sam blew his nose while nodded. Again, his actions were weak.

"Yeah. He cared, I guess," Sam undertoned. Each word coming from Sam's voice sounded delicate. Dean knew Sam  _was_  delicate at the moment, so he chose his words carefully.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked and looked up at Dean, a tired but open expression on his face.

"Sam… You've got to be exhausted," Dean said heavily, making it clear he wasn't just talking about the lack of sleep from the night before.

Sam gave a wistful half-smile, just twitching one corner of his mouth, and looked down to fidget with the threading of the blanket around him. He sniffed.

"Yeah. I'm pretty tired, Dean," Sam agreed sadly.

Sam's words hit Dean there, and Dean made a two-second revelation that what Sam had just said was, in part, why Sam had attempted suicide.

Dean hadn't come here thinking he'd be able to understand. Never in a million years did he think he'd  _ever_  understand suicide. But suddenly he did, and it threw him for a loop.

"Hey Sam- Sammy?" Dean leaned in to Sam, taking a second to screech the coffee table closer to Sam. He reached for Sam's hand and Sam let him take it. Dean squeezed Sam's hand and Sam gave a half-hearted squeeze back.

"Sam, can I take you back home with me?" Dean asked bluntly, laying it all on the line. He felt a tear break through and travel down his cheek. "Please?" Dean begged.

Sam stared into Dean's eyes with worry.

"Dean I'm really messed up-"

"I don't care."

"I've been here two weeks and no one's been able to help me. Obviously," Sam added, lifting his wrists up tiredly. Dean flinched a little to see Sam gesture so callously about what he'd done nine hours ago. Sam wearily brought his eyes back to Dean and sighed.

"You don't want me, Dean."

"Sam, I know what I want," Dean replied, warning in his tone.

"No, Dean. I'm just saying that you  _shouldn't_  want me."

"Whether that's true or not, it doesn't change anything. I have to take you back; I think this place is wrong for you."

"Don't blame the staff; they've been trying."

"I'm not blaming anyone."

Dean paused, watching Sam blink slowly a few times, his eyes flicking to Dean's only every once in awhile.

"If I pull you out, will you come with me?" Dean asked again, praying to god Sam would say yes. Sam bit his lip, his head now lying sideways on the arm of the cushioned armchair, and looked up at Dean.

"Yes," Sam said softly.

Dean's anxiety began to lift and he managed a small smile.

"Really?" Dean asked, relief flooding through him.

"Really," Sam replied a bit faster this time; more certain.

"Okay. The docs not going to be here for awhile, we have at least one hour to kill before I can sign us out. We could go to your room and maybe get your stuff together or you could show me, I don't know, have you done any artwork that's around here? You should show me…"

Sam listened to Dean ramble and re-positioned himself in the armchair. Dean fell silent, watching his little brother. Sam closed his eyes, and a minute or two later Dean leaned in to Sam again.

"Hey Sam? Can I bring us over to the couch and we can just watch tv together? You could fall asleep; I wouldn't mind."

"Can you go watch tv alone?" Sam mumbled: he was comfortable.

"N-I… Can I keep you with me?" Dean asked, his insecurity palpable as he rose to hover over Sam.

"Um," Sam thought it over with his eyes closed, "Sure."

Sam knew he'd have to get up, but he just wanted to stay there for two more seconds. Just two more seconds of this comfort in the armchair.

Dean let out a silent breath he realized he'd been holding and leaned down to pick the kid up, blanket and toilet paper in all. Sam started, surprised Dean was actually going to carry him, but it only took him a moment to let it happen. He loosened his muscles and sunk into Dean's arms with the complete trust he'd always had for Dean.

Dean carried Sam over with the least amount of jarring or jostling as possible. He sat down against the corner of the couch and put his legs up along the seat cushions. Sam landed against Dean's chest and lap as Dean seated himself. He moved around impatiently, inhibited by his blanket and bothered by Dean's movements as his big brother got his feet up onto the length of the couch.

Soon, though, they started to settle, and Sam was lying on Dean's chest sideways with a view of the television as Dean flicked through. Dean stopped on the Saturday morning cartoons and turned the volume down a little bit.

"Tell me if you want to change the channel," Dean murmured and felt Sam nod against his chest.

Dean re-positioned himself after dropping the remote on the arm of the couch and both he and Sam snuggled into each other more. Dean lifted his right knee – the one on the outside of the sofa – to partially cover any visual of Sam if an outsider were to peak through the door's window.

Dean also kept loose arms around his brother's back and sides. He would unconsciously place pressure on Sam with his arms whenever an intense thought would flow through his thoughts – or dreams. Sam was so used to it by now, it just felt good; reassuring. Dean felt like _home_ , Sam realized. Dean represented literally ninety percent of the memories Sam had of feeling safe.

Group therapy was terrible for Sam because they could rarely get him to admit much. But it's not like Sam didn't listen. People talked about safety and Sam had been convinced he'd never known it. But Sam was wrong.

Sam grasped Dean a little tighter, his arm around Dean's waist pressed down and his fist expanded out into a five-star clutch of Dean's back. Dean responded with reassuring pressure in kind.

"Hey Sam?" Dean asked tentatively. He had already been silently tearing up throughout this whole thing. He hadn't even gotten to the question he was going to ask Sam before he started to tear up again now.

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me what you talked to Elliot about this morning?" Dean asked weakly, knowing it'd be a stretch, but hoping he could know. It'd help him get to know Sam better, maybe. Or something.

"No," Sam replied bluntly. Dean unknowingly pressed down on Sam's back. A tear slipped down his cheek, thinking this was the start of Sam keeping secrets or otherwise withholding himself from him again. Would he turn back into the wall he'd been before if he took Sam back home with him now?

"But I can tell you this. The whole time I was talking to Elliot, I was wishing I had been talking to you instead," Sam said softly from under the blankets. Dean blinked a few times and jostled Sam a little to look down and at his brother. Sam didn't meet Dean's eyes, though.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Sam muffled out, sleepy. Dean moved back against the corner of the couch, mulling over what Sam had just said. Silence continued for a good three or four minutes. Long enough for Sam to get used to it.

"Why?-Oh, sorry!" Dean added, cringing, as he felt Sam startle awake at the one-word question.

"Dean, what?"

"Nothing it can wait. Sorry," Dean answered quickly, patting Sam down, "Go to sleep sorry."

"-You asked me 'why,' right? Just now?" Sam asked tiredly.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. Sam turned away from the television and moved his head up closer to Dean's neck and centering his back against Dean's chest, completely unaware and lacking any level of embarrassment. Dean was still struck by how much of a child Sam still was sometimes.

Dean waited for Sam to settle and pressed his hand up against Sam's heart: if Sam wasn't going to give a shit about someone walking in and seeing them like that, Dean sure as hell wasn't going to have any qualms about it:  _he_  didn't know these people.

The hand-on-heart move was a classic thing Dean did, too: Sammy's heart beat under hand used to lull Dean to sleep. So Sam was expecting it. Dean's hand would often find its way to Sam's heart, actually. Sam tried to remember if there was a reason for this. He thought maybe Dean had told him that he was sick as an infant once.

Sam opened his eyes wide in order to jar himself back to the topic at hand. Dean had just asked him why he would rather have been with Dean instead of Elliot last night.

"I wanted to be talking to you because I don't care about Elliot."

"So why won't you tell me what you told him?"

Sam sighed slowly and Dean's hand lifted. Sam tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to in the right way.

"Well, first… I couldn't tell Elliot the whole truth because we're hunters. And I hate lying."

"Okay," Dean encouraged, interested to hear the next points.

"Secondly, I wanted you to be there so I wouldn't have to repeat myself."

"Why can't you just repeat yourself?"

"I had a lot to say."

"That's okay," Dean replied softly, his own voice falling into relaxation from the cadence of Sam's heartbeat. "I like listening to you."

"Okay," Sam breathed after a several minutes had gone by. Sam thought about what Dean had just said, and the room fell back into a long silence.

"Thanks Dean," he eventually whispered. Dean was already asleep.

…

For all his mentions of feeling tired and sleepy, Sam couldn't actually fall asleep, now. It seemed as though he'd put Dean down  _fast_ , though. Sam quirked a small smile. He just looked up at the ceiling, lying against Dean, whose hand was still on his heart under the blanket, and felt safe.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his lids started to close and he started to drift.

What felt like two seconds later, the door to the common room was whipped open and a spare chair was jammed against it loudly. In the split-second it took for the loud sound to pass through their eardrums, Sam felt a fast jerk and twist, finding his face and front smashed against the pillows of the sofa.

Dean, startled and disoriented, had woken up first and, working on automatic, had twisted Sam into the cushions, angling his body between the noise and Sam on the couch.

"Oh jesus," Dean said, annoyed, two seconds after he'd done this, realizing it was just a loud human making a racket around the common area because he hadn't known Sam and Dean were in there sleeping. Dean looked back at Sam blearily, lifting himself up and away from Sam, when he noticed that Sam was trembling.

"Sam? Sam!" Dean's question turned into an urgent call when he realized Sam was actually upset. "Sam are you okay?" Dean asked solicitously, turning Sam back over on the couch. "Did I hurt you? God I'm so sorry, Sam, where's… What's the problem where does it hurt?" Dean blithered, trying to figure out how the hell he could've hurt Sam by what he'd done.

"N-No, it's nothing," Sam actually laughed through tears. Dean sat back to look at Sam and raised an eyebrow.

"Sam? You… Okay?"

"Yeah no I'm fine. I'm fine," Sam said as he wiped his eyes and tried to smile. Dean gave Sam a look of utter confusion, but Sam didn't explain further.

"You're not hurt?" Dean prompted, wanting to make sure.

"No I'm not hurt," Sam replied dutifully. He really did seem fine.

"Um. Okay," Dean fixed Sam with concern, but trucked on: "Should we go find Elliot?"

Sam sniffed a few times and blew his nose while nodding back to Dean.

"'Kay c'mon," Dean said gently, standing up and holding out his hand. Sam took it.


	14. February 15th, 1996 & February 13th, 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be aware and prepared! Warning: the aftermath of the suicide attempt is still being explored in the second half of this chapter.

February 15th, 1996.

Sam finished reading the letter Dean had written, just as Dean walked into the room. Sam flinched and looked up at his brother. Dean stopped midstride at his brother's expression.

"Dean-" Sam started, and waved the piece of paper in his hands. Dean blanched at the sight of it, looking back into Sam's eyes with alarm.

"I don't hate you. I'm sorry I said that," Sam whispered, referring to earlier that day.

"You weren't meant to read that Sammy-"

"I'm glad I did, though."

Dean closed his mouth and furrowed his brows in thought. What could he say? He kind of forgot what he'd written anyway. He remembered it was one hundred percent true, but that just made it worse.

"Dean… What's the deal with Dad? And… I know why I'm not in school… But why aren't you?"

"Um," Dean took a few breathes after these two very loaded questions. He walked over to sit on the unoccupied bed, facing Sam. He sat down slowly, considering his answers, and finally shrugged.

"Sam… I'm… Supposed to be here for you."

"Not as much as you're supposed to be in school, though, right?" Sam replied, quick as a whip. The side of Dean's mouth quirked, an eyebrow raised.

"What's keeping  _you_  out of school?" Dean asked genuinely: no mockery, no subtext of any kind in his tone. Dean wanted to know what Sam would say.

"I don't want to go to school."

"Why?" Dean pressed. Sam looked down at the bed sheets, fiddling with them. "Sammy, it's okay if you don't, but please,  _please_  answer me?" Dean begged weakly. Dean seemed like he was always on his hands and knees to get Sam to actually divulge anything nowadays, but Dean was starting to figure out that it kind of  _worked_. After he'd say it was okay for Sam to refuse to answer, his pleading would still often strike a chord with Sam. Sam was sensitive to others' feelings; no one's' so much as Deans'.

Sam mumbled something at the floor.

"What, Sam?" Dean coaxed, worried. When Sam used to mumble and Dean would need clarification – before he was admitted – Sam would light up with anger that he'd have to repeat himself.

"I don't trust the teachers," Sam clarified softly, still studying the floor. Dean lifted back on the bed, surprised.

"Oh," Dean murmured bluntly, "God that never even occurred to me," Dean finished, a hint of apology in his voice. He turned his head away from Sam, deep in thought, still reeling from his own ineptitude. It made sense, now, why Sam didn't want to go back to school.

Sam shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. A few weeks ago, he would've said that he didn't want to go to school because that just wasn't who he was anymore. When he was admitted, though, his talks with Elliot had torn him apart piece by piece. Any chance of finding an identity after Rennolds was burnt away, leaving Sam with smoldering cinders. The night he'd tried to die, he'd firmly believed they were ashes.

So when Dean asked him about school, Sam was no longer in a place where he thought he'd be able to build anything, much less an identity for himself. Right now, he was just coasting, exhausted, on raw, reactive emotions.

Dean didn't say anything for awhile. Sam waited with apprehension, thinking Dean would eventually try to logic him into going back to school.

Finally, Dean turned back to Sam, his expression pensive. The tightness in Sam's chest loosened a little bit when he saw Dean's face held no judgment about what he'd just said.

"So what about tutors?" Dean asked gently, wondering about the option. "I'd be there the whole time. Could that work?" Dean added, thinking out loud. He'd already been thinking about it, but he wanted Sam to contribute his opinion to this potential option.

Sam gave a shrug and grimaced. Dean's spirits fell, but nodded his acceptance of Sam's discomfort with the idea. Sam, on the other hand, finally looked up and saw how dejected Dean looked.

"We could give it a shot, I guess," Sam deadpanned finally.

"Ah! Really?" Dean shot up from sitting on the bed, excited and about to hug Sam, but then hesitated for Sam's reconfirmation. Sam looked at Dean's bright green eyes and hopeful grin with doubt – this plan probably wouldn't work out. Sam couldn't see it.

But Dean kept holding himself like a statue, frozen in an I'm-about-to-hug-you stance, waiting on Sam's reply, until Sam finally couldn't help but give a small chuckle.

"Really."

And that's when Dean tackled him against the bed with a bear hug. Sam grunted at the force, the wind knocking out of him a little bit, but he still couldn't help but start laughing.

At no point, for the rest of their lives, would their ages highlight such a discrepancy in physique. With Sam at age twelve and Dean having just turned seventeen, Dean was huge compared to Sam – but that didn't seem to discourage Dean from thumping and pinning Sam against the bed with full force - much like fully grown dogs that still thought they were still as light as they were when they were puppies.

"Dean-" Sam's voice was strangled but amused, "Dean you're gonna suffocate me!" Sam gasped out, ending with a chuckle, then a grunt as Dean pushed him again.

"Oh I can fix that hold on-"

"NO! DEAN!" Sam wailed just as he felt Dean reach his hand around to his waist.

"Dean, don't!" Sam yelled, kicking his feet out uselessly to get Dean away. Suddenly Sam burst into laughter underneath Dean as he struggled.

"Can ya breathe now? Is that helping?" Dean teased as he kept tickling Sam's waist.

"NO!" Sam laughed with tears, and Dean kept going, laughing himself at the sight of his little brother wearing a genuine smile… Completely enamored at the sound of his brother's laughter which he hadn't heard in so long.

Sam was starting to gasp his laughter and Dean decided to cut things short, slowly easing up on Sam by moving over and lying on the bed next to Sam. He propped his elbow on the bed and held his head on his hand as he watched Sam's breath steady after the tickle attack. Sam was fine after a minute, sighed, and turned his head to look at Dean next to him. Dean was still sporting a playful smile.

"Good?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay. So we're going to get some tutors. You can study your grade and I'll study for the GED."

"Yeah," Sam whispered. He wasn't reluctant, per se, just more quiet nowadays.

"Okay. What else?" Dean asked gently. He sought Sam's eyes, always, but Sam wasn't as great with eye contact as he used to be. Dean was starting to get used to seeing Sam's hair, temples, and forehead instead of his eyes.

When Sam  _would_  give Dean direct eye contact, now, though, Dean felt for Sam more than he ever had in his life. When Sam was pissed, he looked downright evil, sure, but when he was any other emotion, he looked the epitome of  _that_  emotion, too.

So when Sam turned to Dean with wide, worried eyes, Dean felt it.

"What? What is it?" Dean asked, confused at the sharp twist of emotion Sam just seemed to have gone through.

"What's the deal with Dad, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice small but penetrative. Dean gulped, his eyes softening on his brother. His stomach roiled at having accidentally let that letter get into Sam's hands. He'd never meant to be caught complaining about Dad.

"Nothing-"

"Dean-"

"Sam-"

"I never noticed it before but something's wrong. He's never around for you."

"He's not around for  _you_ , Sammy."

"Yeah, but I have  _you_ ," Sam replied softly, meaningfully.

Dean gazed into Sam's eyes, thinking. Sam didn't break the eye contact in an effort to drive home the truth of what he had just said to Dean.

"As long as I've got you, I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, a strained smile spreading over his face. Sam fiddled with his hands as he whispered his next words.

"It's not enough, Dean."

"Yeah, well," Dean breathed, turning over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. "It better be."

"If you emancipated, I'd want to come with you instead of staying with Dad."

Dean snorted with laughter, and looked at Sam.

"Seriously?" He asked, surprised at Sam's expression of sincerity.

"Yeah," Sam blurted, giving a chuckle, then rolling his eyes at Dean. "Duh."

A warm sense of comfort flooded over Dean. He had been speaking the truth before: he'd be fine as long as he had Sam.

So, emancipation didn't seem like such a scary thing, now.

…

February 13th, 1996.

Sam and Dean were in the motel room – having checked Sam out that morning, it was afternoon and Sam had picked at his bandaged wrists one time too many.

Dean stood up and flicked the TV off.

"Hey! What-" Sam exclaimed from the other bed, confused.

"C'mere I need to change your banages. It'll-"

But Sam had already started complaining, claiming they were fine.

"Dean it's really okay I promise we don't have to-"

"It'll take two minutes, Sam, c'mon. We'll have to do it eventually anyway. You can't change them alone since they're on your wrists…"

"Yeah but…" Sam stopped, deflating, and looked back up to his brother's outstretched hand in shame. Dean watched as Sam's face flushed a little bit.

"C'mon Sammy, it's okay. I'm not mad; I won't get upset. Please?" Dean spoke gently, consolingly. Sam let out a loud sigh and took Dean's hand. He got up and Dean angled him over to sit on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom. Sam hung his head to stare at the floor as Dean opened a couple cabinets and the mirror shelf to collect supplies.

"Okay," he murmured as he crouched in front of Sam, his rustling movements echoing in the acoustic bathroom. Dean was apprehensive, scared about what he'd see when he'd take off the bandages, but no way in hell was he going to let Sam know that.

"Hey Sam?" Dean prompted, trying to get Sam to look up at him. "Ready? You good?" He added. Sam nodded and looked up, but he didn't look into Dean's eyes.

"Okay," Dean whispered, and took Sam's right hand gingerly. Sam acquiesced limply.

"You okay?" Dean asked as he began to unwrap the white gauze from around Sam's wrist. Sam sniffed.

"Yeah it's just…" Sam murmured, watching as Dean came closer and closer to revealing the injuries on his wrist.

"Just what?" Dean prompted softly.

"It's just really embarrassing," Sam's voice cracked as he whispered, but the bathroom magnified his voice, and Dean didn't miss a word.

"Don't be embarrassed, Sammy. What happened, happened-"

"No you don't understand," Sam interrupted. Dean stopped and looked up before he unwrapped the last piece of gauze from Sam's wrist. He looked into Sam's eyes, curiosity and confusion emblazoned on his face.

"I'm embarrassed because I couldn't do it."

For Dean, the air left his lungs and it felt like it'd never come back. He had to look down, this time, to regain composure.

Sam knew there wasn't anything to say back to his confession; he was glad Dean hadn't shot back with a line from a fortune cookie about life being precious. So he stayed in the silence, waiting for Dean.

"Okay, well," Dean didn't look back up at Sam, but rather moved his eyes to Sam's wrist to unwrap it completely. His breath caught, again, at the sight: so many long and short shallow cuts marred the underside of Sam's wrist. Sam really hadn't been able to do it, but it obviously wasn't for a lack of trying.

"Jesus," Dean whispered, and sat back on his haunches, overwhelmed. He let go of Sam's wrist for a second and Sam pulled it back to his chest.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was small, but his eyes were on his brother.

"Yeah just give me a minute," Dean whispered, blinking back tears as he stared, unseeing, at the floor. Silence persisted until Dean sniffed and shook his head out of the fog.

"Ah," he grunted, leaning forward again towards Sam and reaching his hand out, "Okay c'mere," he whispered again. Sam extended his hand out to Dean and let Dean take it again.

In silence, Dean applied antibiotic cream and wrapped clean bandages around Sam's wrist. He moved to the other one and started to unwrap it.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"For whatever it's worth, I'm so happy you couldn't do it," Dean murmured, but it was clear enough. "So," he continued, struggling to pick the right words as he focused on Sam's right wrist, "However you're feeling right now about this, just know that… I'm… I need you around."

Sam considered the statement, still looking down at his wrist as Dean continued to unwrap it.

"Okay."

A few minutes passed and a similar visage of the underside of Sam's left wrist met Dean's eyes. The cuts were a little deeper, though, and Dean's rational side realized it was because Sam was right-handed. Still, there had been no need for stitches; Sam must have been a bloody mess when he'd been found, though.

Dean's stomach turned, but he hung in there and cleaned the wounds.

"What'd you use?" Dean asked suddenly, still looking down. Sam flinched a little bit in surprise.

"What?"

"What'd you use? To… You know… Do this?" Dean clarified.

Sam studied his brother. Even though Dean was still looking down, Sam still felt like he needed to know what to expect if he answered.

"Um. Scissors," Sam whispered. He saw Dean's head nod, then stop. He looked up at Sam, curious.

"I was in the common room, though. They only let you guys have those safety scissors, right?"

"Yeah I snagged real ones from the nurse's station," Sam explained hesitantly. Where was this conversation going?

"Mm," Dean hummed, applying antibiotic cream. Dean worked so diligently, cradling Sam's wrists, that Sam hadn't even winced throughout.

"We have guns – weapons – here," Dean blurted softly. Sam's face scrunched in confusion for a second before he understood what Dean was saying. Before Sam could reply, Dean continued. "I have to trust you. I'm trusting you… That you won't do this again without coming to me first."

"I wouldn't kill myself with our weapons, Dean-" Sam replied bluntly, rolling his eyes a little bit.

"Then I want you to tell me that you won't try at all without coming to me first."

"What would coming to you first do?"

Dean bit his lip at the question, trying to figure out how to word it so he knew Sam  _would_ actually come to him… Even though, inside, he was screaming:  _I'd stop you_.

Instead, he finally looked up at Sam after wrapping his wrist with the new bandage and fixed him with sincere eyes.

"It'd give you a way out," Dean replied significantly. Sam gave him a skeptical look and glanced over at the shower stall. "Look – Sam. Listen," Dean pushed, tugging Sam's shirt. Reluctantly, Sam looked back down at Dean. "I'm not ever going to put you in a place like that again. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do anymore. But if you feel like you did before – ever again – there are still options. You can come to me for anything – absolutely anything – in the middle of the night for all I care - and we'll work on it, together, to figure out those options. Okay?"

The imperative in Dean's statements were masked by his smooth, steady tone.

Dean's eyes were so full of well-meaning intentions and hope that something inside Sam's chest, what felt like an anvil of guilt, cracked –just a little – down the middle. Sam licked his lips, tentatively regarding his brother.

"Okay, Dean."


	15. February 27th, 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is largely a bridging chapter. I thought this conversation merited its own chapter given that the next one launches into a different time & place.

Dean looked up from the book he was reading as he heard a key jiggle the lock on the motel room door. Silently, he reached out for the shotgun between his bed and the nightstand, his eyes trained on the door. He glanced at his watch: eight pm.

Still sitting on the bed in a leisurely recline, he had the gun angled straight at the door, his hands steady, eyes narrowed. The door banged open and John stepped in.

"Oh, hey," Dean took a second and lowered the gun down, resting it back onto the floor. John didn't flinch at the sight. After all, he'd been the one to teach his son to greet him in position like that. He rubbed his face and carried his duffel, along with a bag of weapons, over to the table near the window.

"Hey, Dean," he replied amicably. "Where's Sam?"

"Taking a shower," Dean replied, going back to his book as John settled his things. "Y'want your bed?"

John would often come home and crash as soon as he got into the room. John turned around to look at Dean. He glanced at the bathroom, nodding at it.

"How long'll Sam be in there?"

"Not long, but he just went in," Dean replied casually, thinking maybe John wanted to hit the shower before falling asleep.

"Okay. Can we talk outside?"

Dean looked at John curiously.

"Sure," Dean answered, sorely getting off the bed and throwing the book down on the mattress as he followed his father outside. The outside of the room had a wooden pathway lining the building's room doors and matching fencing.

"What's up?" Dean asked lightly. He pulled his jacket on and leaned against the wooden railing, folding his arms against his chest. John didn't look Dean in the eye as he braced himself for what he was about to say.

"Dad-?" Dean prompted after several moments of awkward silence. John raised his head to look into Dean's eyes as he started to speak.

"Dean, I owe you an apology."

John let his sentence hang in the air for a second, letting it sink in. Dean opened his mouth, about to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent. After a longer pause, Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"For what?"

"That's a good question. I don't really know where to start," John replied bluntly, rubbing his worn, tired face with one hand.

"Dad, you don't need to apologize for anything, but-" Dean paused hesitantly, "But I need to know something from you. Do you want us here? With you?"

"More than anything," John answered his son in the blink of an eye. He fixed Dean with an intense stare: deadlock certainty.

Dean gave him a pained expression, biting his lower lip. He was still skeptical, no matter how serious his father looked.

"If you want me gone, though, it'd be okay. I've already started the paperwork – I started it a week ago after Sam told me he'd come with me if I emancipated. I'd be able to claim guardianship here."

"Dean… No…" John murmured, looking like his son had just stabbed him in the heart.

"It wouldn't be a problem. Seriously if you want to hunt, and you think having us travel with you is too much, now, we can make it work," Dean said patiently.

Dean thought he was describing a future that his father would want; a future that Sam could live with; a future where he wouldn't lose his family… Even if it meant sacrificing hunting. Dean would do it; he'd do anything for his father and brother.

And if he and Sam actually did start living independently from their father, Dean would only have to wait until Sam graduated from high school – or got his GED. Then Dean would be able to go back to hunting. Maybe Sam would want to, too. Crazier things have happened, right?

"Dean," John sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. Dean picked up on it and confusion swept through him. What did John  _want_  from him?

"Dean," John started again, "When Sam was gone, I was scared."

"Me too, Dad," Dean replied softly, understanding.

"Yeah, you were, son, but you handled yourself. I'm so… I'm so proud-" John choked on his words and Dean looked at his father like he was nuts. He'd never seen John express this much emotion since his mother had died.

John put himself back together within a blink, though, and continued.

"Dean, I'm so proud of you. You have to know that," John said firmly, then continued to explain himself: "Listen, when Sam was gone, my discussions with you – about leaving you – the emancipation – everything. I blamed… I was blaming you for Sam's kidnapping, Dean," John stressed the last sentence, making it clear that he thought what he'd done had been terrible.

Dean listened closely to John with pursed lips. What John was saying didn't add up, and Dean gave a slight sneer.

"Dad, what're you talking about? I'm supposed to keep Sam safe. It was under my watch that he'd been taken. It's fine – I'm fine – with you blaming me.  _I_  blame me."

John gave a bitter laugh and pointed at Dean.

"That made me feel like an even worse parent right there," John admitted, and rubbed his eyes clear of the water that had built up in them.

"What? Why? I… Dad, I'm not understanding you."

"Okay well understand this. I am sorry that I treated you the way I did when Sam was gone. I am sorry that I left you guys  _after_  Sam had been signed out of the hospital."

"Why  _did_  you do that?" Dean spoke up, a spark of anger suddenly flaring from within Dean. John's eyebrows raised in surprise at Dean's sudden twist of emotion. Before, he had been so apathetic about John's apology, but now it seemed his son was stepping up to the plate for a fight.

"What?" John said awkwardly, having been caught off guard.

"Why did you leave Sam and I after Sam had gotten back from the hospital?"

"I-"

"He needed you, Dad. We both needed you, but you just took off."

John gave a heavy sigh.

"In fact," Dean was starting to wind himself up with his own words, "It's the only reason I thought you still wanted to go through with emancipation. You left  _both_  of us high and dry in this disgusting motel room, checking in every now and again, barely exchanging  _ten sentences_  between the two of us, and then you'd just take off again. I thought we were burdening you so much you'd be  _happy_  if I just took Sam and left."

John gave a small, rueful snort of laughter.

"What?" Dean asked immediately, irritated by his father's reaction. John glanced at Dean and shook his head.

"Isn't it ironic that I thought I'd be burdening you if I had stuck around?"

"You're our Dad. How the hell could you have thought that?"

John bit his lip and furrowed his brows deep in thought, then shrugged.

"Sam told me to get out in the hospital."

"He had almost froze to death from a hex bag not, like, eighteen hours before then! And Rennolds had been impersonating us."

"Sam got scared when I tried to help him out of the car when we got him back from the hospital."

" _So_?"

"Dean, Sam needed you more than he needed me from the get-go," John blurted, realizing he needed to be explicit to his eldest here.

"He needed  _both of us_ , Dad. Your ego was hurt. And then you took off," Dean summarized harshly. His words cut through John, and he staged back to lean against the motel building's paneled wall for support.

"That's probably true," John finally whispered in grief. A tear broke from his eye, but he wiped it away before Dean could see.

Dean, for one, actually felt self-righteously justified for the first time in what felt like ages. He'd started to deflate, though, as John acknowledged and conceded to Dean's rendition of what happened. Fixing his father with aquiline eyes, Dean had to pick this conversation back up.

"So. Why are we having this conversation?" Dean asked softly. John looked up and huffed, gathering his wits.

"Well, how's Sammy doing?"

"You should ask him."

"Humor me."

Dean rolled his eyes, but relented.

"He's doing okay," Dean shrugged vaguely. He wasn't able to tell their father about Sam's suicide attempt two weeks ago for two reasons: one, he'd promised Sam he wouldn't and two, he knew it was something Sam should be telling their father directly anyway.

Dean never thought Sam would actually keep it a secret from their father, but as time went on and John never asked, Sam would never answer.

After going through so much with Sam, Dean couldn't help but side with Sam on that: if Dad really cared, he would've made more of an effort. Even anything remotely like Dean's effort would have been welcome, and Dean knew Sam was such an emotional wreck right now that Sam probably would've told John  _everything_  at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, though, the disconnect persisted and John just consistently cut himself off from his youngest.

"Really?" John asked, genuine concern and hope shining in his eyes.

"No."

"Why, what is it?"

"Ah, Dad, really?"

"What?"

"I don't want to go into it," he replied, almost pleading for his father to let it go, for the time being.

For the past two and a half months, Dean had been dealing with his worst nightmares. As much as he wanted his dad to come back into the fold for Sammy and him, he couldn't even imagine trying to fill his dad in on what had been happening. More than that, though, he just wasn't interested in providing his father with the revelations he had had to reach the hard way; alone.

"Okay," John acquiesced patiently, understanding Dean's tone. "Well, I have an idea. And I wanted to run it by you."

"What is it?"

"I need to spend more time with you boys. I know that."

"Okay," Dean encouraged John to go on.

"You think Sam's ready to go out on a few hunts with us again?"

"Oh!" Dean exclaimed, surprised. His heart gave a slight flutter of excitement over the possibility of going out on hunts again. But then he grounded himself, thinking about Sam's welfare, and worriedly looked towards the motel room. "I don't… I don't know," he answered honestly. He thought about it more, and John let the wheels turn in Dean's mind.

"Here?" Dean asked.

"No we'd move."

"Where?"

"Maine."

"Huh," Dean nodded, considering. "I don't know… We should ask Sam."


	16. March 1st, 1996 & January 30th, 1996

March 1st, 1996

Sam sat in the backseat, blinking his eyes slowly at the carved initials in the Impala. He was exhausted and feeling slightly nauseous from the diner food he'd eaten a few hours ago with Dean. He suspected it was the fried zucchini – Dean had been so fascinated by the concept, he'd ordered them and Sam had actually found them to be pretty good. Not so much after a couple hours, though.

Dean and John had parked in the lot near the Fitzgerald cliff in a small coastal town of Maine. Beautiful cliffs almost always have their fair share of jumpers in the calendar year, but within the past month, the stats had gone way up. Who ya gonna call? The Winchesters. So here they were. And here was Sam, who had opted to stay in the car at Dean and John's request as they walked over the grounds and checked out the cliff for any signs of the paranormal.

Sam was fine with moving; he was going to have to get used to new tutors, but he was getting sick of Raleigh and he knew Dean wanted to go on a hunt. But right now, he was tired. The drive north had been miserable, but then to hear that Dean and John both wanted to check out the cliff before even getting a motel room? Sam was not pleased.

Then again, the Impala always was home to him. Sam rubbed his eyes and stared out into the frigid fog, trying to spot his father or brother. Failing to see anything beyond ten feet of him, Sam gave up and grabbed his hoodie as the car started to cool down. He pulled the spare blanket over himself as he scooched down to lie along the bench seat. Getting comfortable, Sam closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.

…

January 30th, 1996

Jane Chandler had fifty minutes to start off on the right foot, so it was time to get cracking. She was confident her kind demeanor, the comfortable surroundings, and her well-rounded personality would glean meaningful insight to this young, traumatized boy.

"Take a seat, Sam, do you want anything to drink?"

Sam sat down on the couch.

"No I'm fine."

Jane nodded casually and took a seat in one of the arm chairs opposite the sofa. She clasped her hands.

"So. I've heard you've been having a rough time, huh?"

Sam huffed a sarcastic laugh and rolled his eyes, then shrugged.

"I don't know. I'm fine," he challenged.

"Mmhm, okay," Jane replied calmly, going along.

"So then why do you think you're here today?"

"Well what'd Dean say?"

"No I want to hear it in your words."  _Asserting authority_ , she thought.

"I have no  _idea_  why I'm here."

Sam hated this – he resented this. He didn't need therapy. What he needed was to stop his little freak-outs around Dean. He needed to handle things his way. Dean needed to trust him enough to be able to do that.

But no. God forbid Sam handles problems on his own. Even just  _trying_ to go it alone without Dean's help… Let's not sugarcoat it –  _that's_  why he was in therapy.

Dean wanted him to tell him his secret – that the demon that killed Mom? That demon's blood is inside of him; a part of him forever.  _Oh yeah and hey, could you pick me up some Corn Pops at the seven eleven if you're headed out?_  Sam thought bitterly. There was no going back; he wasn't going to tell Dean what he was. He was going to suck it up and spare Dean for once and, in so doing, keep them together: he wasn't going to destroy this family by making them realize one-third of it was actually a thing they'd ordinarily hunt.

Jane stopped short at Sam's words, a little stunted. He had to give her  _something._

"Really? No idea?" She pressed with a wry, playful smile.

"Really," Sam shot back, unblinking and one hundred percent certain. Jane realized Sam's sense of humor was nowhere to be found in this exchange, so she cut to the quick.

"Do you think coming here has something to do with what happened to you?"

"No, actually, I don't," Sam replied honestly.

"So, you think your brother wanted you to come see me here for absolutely no reason?" She rephrased Sam's words, which she knew would prompt him to correct her.

"No he wanted me to come here for  _terrible_  reasons."

"Okay," Jane sat up a little in her seat: now they were getting somewhere. "What terrible reasons do you think you're here for?"

Sam thought about it.

"He wants me to be someone I'm not."

"Who's that?"

"Who I was before Rennolds."

"Rennolds - was the teacher that abducted you," she said as she looked at his file, then looked up. Sam, lost in thought, didn't respond. "So, what makes you think you're not the person you were before your abduction?"

"I don't know. I just am."

"Do you think Dean doesn't like who you are now?"

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"So that's why you think you're here?"

"Stop parroting me."

Jane pursed her lips in annoyance; she wasn't used to being treated with such disrespect. Sam looked at the leather couch he was seated in, relaxed and nonchalant. He started picking at the arm of the couch and Jane gritted her teeth.

"Sam. Would you please not do that?" Her voice pierced the air and Sam gave a small sneer as he stopped.

"Ahem," she coughed, trying to buy time to remember where they'd left off.

"So you think," she started to summarize, "that Dean doesn't like who you are and so put you into therapy, is that it?"

"I don't know, is it? He's talked to you before; you probably know better than I do."

"I think he's concerned about you."

"If he was really concerned about me, he'd leave me alone and let me be who I am, now."

Jane let his statement hang in the air and decided on a different tack.

"Sam, I know you've been having panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares-"

"-Jesus," Sam exclaimed, then pointed at Jane angrily, "That- that is  _not_  worth talking about. We're not talking about that."

"Sam – if you're dealing with the after effects of your abduction like that-"

"No! They're going to go away. Seriously, time heals, right? There is no  _reason_  I should be here at  _all_!" Sam said heatedly.

"Sam, calm down," Jane replied, an air of authority in her voice.

Wrong move. Sam reeled back in disbelief, then narrowed his eyes as he leaned forward and spoke with a threatening undercurrent.

"Screw you. You have no idea what the hell I've been through - but you had a few phone conversations with my brother - and so that makes you an expert? I don't think so."

Jane bristled with anger, unnerved by this slander shot at her.

"Sam, I'm coming to the table here to just talk. I don't want you to be upset."

"Well, you've failed."

"Sam, do you think you're being rude right now?"

"Jane, do you think you're being a condescending bitch right now?"

Jane's eyes narrowed and she looked away, seething. Finally, she turned back to Sam.

"Does your brother appreciate behavior like this?"

"I don't know. He's never been as obnoxious as you are."

Jane grimaced at the insult. In anger, her insight from the conversations with Dean warped her next question into an attack that she knew would slice through Sam. Her words sharp and crisp, she launched into her next statement.

"Dean feels like he's losing you to this attitude of yours, Sam. Have you given any thought to that?"

She saw Sam blink in surprise, the color draining from his face.  _Got 'im_ , she thought, and before he could respond with a smart ass comment, she continued.

"This new you, if you continue to behave in this manner, is destructive, Sam. Can't you see that? You're forcing everyone – everything – including Dean – away from you."

Sam swallowed but his throat was dry. He stared into Jane's eyes, livid.

"Everything I'm doing right now is  _for_  Dean."

"Well, then," Jane thought about the next hypothetical statement she was going to give. It had worked with clients in the past – they'd appreciated the perspective it gave them.

"If you were to die right now, how do you think Dean would remember you? – If you keep acting like this?"

If there were any other words picked and strung together in the English language, none could have elicited the same reaction from Sam.

…

Dean tapped his fingers lightly on the dashboard, then the steering wheel of the Impala in tune to the Zeppelin on the tape deck. He glanced at the house every once in awhile. He wasn't sure why, but there was something about this that made him feel certain he needed to be around. Just in case. He wasn't sure what it was. He imagined Sam just being the temperamental kid he had become: that's it. And surely a well-respected psychologist would be able to handle it. Perhaps help him. Dean was more confident about the former assumption over the latter, but it was worth a shot.

Anything was worth a shot, now, really. Sam was sick, and making himself sicker as time went on. The Sam Dean knew was only showing himself when he would hit a break in his usual dickish facade… And those breaks, Dean just knew, would diminish over time.

Dean didn't want Sam to be broken. It bothered him, though, that that was almost what he was asking for by taking him to Jane Chandler. Dean had to consistently ask himself: was he desperate for Sam to be okay (and an asshole), or was he just desperate to have his little brother back?

It'd only been about nine, maybe ten days since Dean brought him back from the hospital. He thought they were going to start healing. Especially after convincing Sam in the hospital that he'd really been saved and that Dean, and John, were real.

But since that time, Dean had paid attention to Sam, much to his little brother's discomfort and frustration. Sam watched TV. He liked playing solitaire. He would daydream often: just rest in bed with his hands clasped across his chest with his eyes closed. What else did Sam like to do? Dean could only rattle off so many new  _dislikes_. Only now did it occur to him that his baby brother used to actually  _like_  so many things. Dean couldn't really grasp why Sam was cutting them all out, now: how in the hell would hating books help Sam feel better about himself after Rennolds?

It didn't make sense.

Dean was winding himself up with these thoughts and unconsciously lifted his arms to reach and press against the ceiling of the Impala, bracing himself in the midst of his own mental torture.

Sam trusted him… Still must, deep down, to fix this. Sam had been pushing his limits with him since he woke up after that first night they got into the motel. It was nuts: Dean let him say and do things so ordinarily unacceptable simply because he felt sympathetic towards what Sam had gone through. He let Sam off the hook because he just thought it'd be a phase. And, sure, it'd only been nine days… But Dean could tell. He could tell this was getting worse, and that it was serious. Dean even knew it was about the secret Sam didn't want to tell him. He just had _no_  clue how to break Sam into opening up about it.

It was weird, but no matter how obnoxious Sam was being to him at the moment: Dean always wanted him nearby. It was nothing Sam could do, or even control. It was just built into who Dean was… To stop watching out for Sam would be like asking Dean to start eating salads. Or something.

Dean looked at his watch. Ten-forty am. So far so good, he figured, and tried to lose himself in the rhythm and lyrics of the song.

Not two seconds later, Dean heard the crash of a window shattering coming from the house. He jumped and turned off the music, listening intently, on high alert, to any sounds emanating from the house. He jerked and grabbed the car handle the minute he heard Sam's yells from inside.

…

Sam's vision went blank for a second, but clicked back into place as he stood up to grab something – anything – in white-hot anger. The shelf right behind him held a heavy book end.

"I am doing  _everything_  for Dean – for my  _FAMILY_!" He shouted at Jane, and threw the book end straight at the glass window, shattering it to pieces. Sam's voiced rattled through the room as the glass burst: " _EVERYTHING!"_ Sam turned and upended the coffee table in front of the sofa. "You don't know  _ANYTHING_ about what I've been through or who I  _AM!"_  Sam screamed the last word with power as he had moved behind her to crash his arms against the desk and swept all the papers, accessories, and file-shelves off onto the floor. He stumbled for a second, dizzy with anger and grief, not realizing the tears in his eyes were marring his vision as he stepped over the mess and grabbed the floor-length lamp, about to swing it to destroy the wooden-encased globe in the corner of the room. No longer even looking at Jane, and fully sobbing now, he yelled, " _If I died right now, my family would remember me -UH!"_  Sam's words were cut off with a loud gruntas something slammed against his back and a sharp pain shot through his arm holding the lamp, rendering his grip useless and the lamp clattered to the floor.

Immediately, Sam started struggling like a caged animal, screaming in alarm.

"SAM! It's me!" Dean yelled, his voice booming through the entire house.

"DEAN-! NO!  _Get off me_!" Sam cried. Dean started to back Sam away from the corner and closer to the sofa that Sam had once been sitting down in. Sam tried to gain purchase, but he was too intent on getting out from Dean's arms: one wrapped diagonally across his chest, the other around his stomach, Dean had total control over any major movement of Sams'.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean yelled back, and Sam knew he was talking to Jane.

"DEAN PLEASE!" Sam cried as Dean kept moving him back with him.

When Sam finally gave up under Dean's restraint, Dean sat down on the couch and brought his exhausted, angry, weeping brother to sit down in front of him in the space between his legs, still effectively hugging him from behind.

In a small act of rebellion, Sam tried a last ditch attempt to get away from Dean, who had loosened his grip on Sam when he'd fallen limp under him. He jumped away from Dean's lap, and would have landed his hands straight onto the coffee table's broken shards of glass had Dean's superb reflexes not been so ingrained.

"Hey – NO! -SAM!" Dean yelled sharply, whipping Sam back to him by gripping his waist, but Sam fell onto the floor in a final act of defiance: he didn't want Dean's arms around him; he didn't want Dean  _touching_  him. Gritting his teeth, Dean kept an almost painfully tight grip on Sam's shoulder, but didn't try to move Sam from his seat on the floor below him.

Sam wriggled under Dean's grasp, but after a painfully tighter squeeze of warning from Dean's grip, Sam gave up and folded into himself, repressing waves of anger and pain still flooding over him.

Dean looked up at Jane, who had moved to one of the room's corners to get out of Sam's way during his rampage. Hand on heart, her breath was heavy, her eyes shocked.

"What did you say to him?" Dean asked, his soft voice dripping with menace.

Jane looked at Sam, noticing that he'd started rocking, slightly, back and forth on the floor. She gathered herself, regained composure, reminded herself that she was a psychologist; a PH.D that knows how to handle cases like these. Sam was a  _very_  disturbed child. Jane Chandler, PH.D, licked her lips, and fixed Dean with what she knew to be the look of a professional with bad news.

"Dean, we have to talk."

…

March 1st, 1996

_BANG._

Sam jumped, scared and alert inside the car, and blinked rapidly as he looked up at his grinning brother, who'd just smacked the window that Sam had been sleeping on.

Shaken from the dream, which had actually been a fully completed memory, Sam still managed to direct a harassed expression at Dean through the car window.

Sam watched as Dean turned away and looked down at the car seat. He felt terrible: he felt as worthless as he had on that day in Jane Chandler's office. Sinking back against the seat, he tried to even out his emotions. It was just a dream.

Dean got into the passenger seat of the Impala as Sam felt the  _thump_  of the weapons/gadgets bag being thrown into the back of the car by their father.

"Sammy?" Dean called out, having given him a double-take.

"Yeah?" Sam choked out, surprised by his own feelings.

"You… You okay?" Dean asked, confused. Sam blinked and rubbed his eyes: they were watering.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. I… Just… Had a really weird dream," he said sleepily. Dean nodded and turned back around facing the windshield, flipping open and looking through the stash of fake IDs. After a few moments, Dean spoke up absentmindedly.

"Clowns or midgets?"

"Did you guys find anything?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's quip.

"Yeah well, there's definitely something goin' on up there. You psyched for listening for EVP when we get to the motel?"

"No," Sam deadpanned, and Dean chuckled. "Do… Is it just, like, a ghost?"

Sam saw Dean look up and cock his head to the side, thinking about Sam's question. He turned around as he started talking.

"We don't really know. Dad'll check out the morgue tomorrow, but apparently the vics all died without any sign of struggle…"

"So… Just normal - stroll up to the cliff and jump – people?"

"Yeah but since there's so many of them… But hey, we heard they stopped a fifth guy just two days ago, too."

"Oh wow so you can interview him."

"Thanks what we're thinkin', Lincoln."

"Okay cool," Sam said vaguely as their father got into the car.

"You sure you're cool?" Dean asked one last time, unabashed that their father was there. Sam blushed, though, in embarrassment.

"Yeah Dean I'm fine," he replied softly, irked. Dean nodded to him meaningfully and turned back around.

Sam's expression switched immediately to confusion: that sense of shame was aberrant. It harkened back to that memory he dreamt, too: The day he seriously considered his post-abduction welfare was nothing but a burden to his family.


	17. March 1st & 2nd, 1996

March 1st, 1996

Fitzgerald, Maine

Sam shucked the sheets off of him in bed, overheated. The starched fabric made a 'whoomph,' noise as he did so, simultaneously compressing the cheap mattress. Dean, lying on his stomach on the other side of the bed, didn't move. The drive and the trip up to the cliff had left him exhausted; he'd knocked out right after having downed the burger take-out their Dad had brought them while the two of them had been setting up in the motel. Sam breathed heavily, scrunched his eyes shut, and tried to relax. His body lost heat rapidly and he grabbed the one thin sheet to cover himself with just before dropping off.

…

_"Sam?"_

_"What?"_

_"You did good in there today," Elliot praised as he moved over to sit in the chair in Sam's room. Sam was lying down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. He didn't respond to Elliot, but rather angrily rubbed his eyes, trying to get the last vestiges of the tears off his face._

_"I don't see how that was any good," he finally replied, irritated._

_"Well, when it comes to someone with your past, it's always a good thing when you start to be able to tell your story."_

_"It didn't feel like a good thing."_

_"What did it feel like?"_

_"It felt like I was reliving it."_

_"That's quite common, Sam. But as you continue to come to terms with what happened to you, it'll stop feeling that way."_

_"And how will you know when I've come to terms with it?" Sam countered, suddenly objective. He turned his head to look at Elliot with curiosity._

_"What do you mean, Sam?" Elliot asked kindly, leaning forward and looking into Sam's eyes._

_"I mean, how will you know when I'm better? I mean, when will you let me go home?"_

_"That's up to you, Sam."_

_Sam grimaced with disgust and looked back at the ceiling._

_"That's bullshit," he said softly, yet vehemently._

_"Sam, why don't_ you _tell_ me _what you think will make me recommend going home?"_

_Sam thought about this for a few minutes._

_"I think you'll recommend me for release when I stop getting upset over what happened to me."_

_"That's an interesting way to put it," Elliot replied, pensive. Elliot didn't deny it, though. Sam had spoken in an objective manner: Elliot had no way of knowing what Sam's follow-up thoughts were._

_Until he saw his patient's body jerk in bed and Sam's eyes covering his face._

_"… But that means that you'll never recommend me for release," he murmured in tears, the words muffled by the hands over his face. "And I'll never get back to my family."_

_…_

_A few days later…_

_"You know what I think of this place?"_

_"No, Sam, what do you think of this place?"_

_"I think it's bullshit. You wouldn't even be employed if it weren't for us, your patients."_

_"Sure, Sam, you're one of the people I provide my services to."_

_"Right, so, you want us to stay in here."_

_"No, Sam, I promise you that's not what I want."_

_"Then tell me this," Sam nearly yelled back as he rubbed his eyes free of tears, yet again. He knew he was doing too much crying in this place, but he couldn't help it: either he was feeling utterly numb or he was absolutely furious or devastated – both emotions elicited tears. "Why do you want me to keep re-telling you what happened to me?"_

_"-Because it helps, Sam," Elliiot replied patiently._

_"I don't understand how it helps. You're forcing me to think about it_ all the time _, Elliot. How the hell am I going to get past this shit if you keep forcing the damn memory of it down my throat every day?"_

_"Sam, I understand what you're saying to me, but this method works."_

_"Yes! Yes it works - I understand that, Elliot, because this is a win-win game you're playing!"_

_Sam paused, breathing heavily. Elliot fixed him with an expression of confusion._

_"Sam, I'm not playing any ga-"_

_"Yes you are! You're lying to yourself if you think you're not."_

_"All right. What do you mean?"_

_"You're forcing all of us to keep remembering these horrible memories. You say that until we can tell our stories without feeling like we're_ reliving _them, we're not recommended release."_

_"Okay," Elliot conceded a little bit, wondering where Sam was going._

_"I have_ met _the patients here, Elliot, and I swear to god they are healing despite the pressure you put on them to remember. Not because of it. They need to get on with their lives, not sit in a room with a bunch of other traumatized people recounting their own traumas._ That's _just going to mess them up more."_

_"Have you noticed that you're not counting yourself as a patient here, Sam? Using third person to describe how you're feeling?"_

_"God_ damn _it, Elliot, have you been listening to anything I'm saying?!_  I _…Are you happy now?_ I  _can't talk about my abduction without feeling like I'm reliving it. And it's because_ you're  _pushing me to keep thinking about it. If the day_ ever  _comes that I don't get upset about what happened to me – it sure as_ hell _won't be because I talked about it every – single - damn - day with_  you!"

_Sam slapped the hand towel he was holding against the back of the chair in his room. Elliot sighed and looked at his watch._

_"I'm sorry you feel that way, Sam," Elliot finally said softly. "Dinner's in ten, though. We'll pick this up later, okay?" He asked calmly._

_"Screw you," Sam whispered, not deigning to say goodbye. Elliot waited for a second, nodded sadly, and turned away down the hallway. Sam waited until he could hear Elliot's footsteps disappear._

_"I'm never going to get out of here," he whispered to himself in agony. He grasped the edge of the chair and threw it against the wall. He felt trapped, which only served to reawaken memories of his abduction…_

…

_Sam was in bed in his room in Rennolds' apartment, thinking about his newfound resolve to escape and when the likeliest moment of opportunity would present itself to him._

_"Sam… Sammy?" Dean opened the door to the bedroom. Sam jerked in surprise at the sound of his brother's voice._

_"Dean!"_

_"Shh," Dean spoke quietly, clicking the door back in place. "Sammy how you doing?" Dean asked as he rushed to Sam's bedside._

_"I'm okay, yeah," Sam replied, his throat tightening with emotion as Dean's hands moved up to cradle his face and look into his eyes. "Can we get out of here?" Sam managed to choke out, overwhelmed by relief and his brother's genuine look of sympathy and worry._

_Dean pursed his lips and brushed Sam's bangs back from his desperate eyes._

_"Not yet, Sam. Not yet," Dean replied softly._

_"Wh-What?" Sam asked, confused._

_"Sammy, I_  know. _Dad and me._   _We_  know," _Dean said as he moved up closer to Sam and placing an affectionate hand on his neck. But as he spoke these words, Sam saw a tear drop from the corner of Dean's eye. Sam's heartbeat jumped and sped up._

_"We know about the demon blood, Sam, and we know what Rennolds has been doing –" Sam started shaking his head in denial, his expression turning to horror. "Yes, Sam – Yes," Dean responded in kind, nodding his head at Sam's reaction. He pressed closer to Sam, tilting his head to reach Sam's eyes again._

_"We agreed. One month. And then you get to come back with Dad and I. I don't know what we're going to do with you, then, but for now, you just have to make it through the month-" Sam started crying at his brothers words, shaking his head in terrified disbelief. "Hey – hey, Sammy - you're already halfway there, tiger," Dean coached patiently, gliding his hand through Sam's hair reassuringly. "Sam, c'mon. No chick flick moments, all right?" Dean said sympathetically as he finally pulled Sam in for a hug._

_Despite everything Dean had just said to him, Sam embraced his brother tightly, unwilling to let go. Sobbing, he looked up._

_"But Dean, he forced me today. I thought it was okay but he made me go through a spell that I said I couldn't handle-"_

_"Sam, a month is a short amount of time. Rennolds is doing all he can to get these trials done with – you've got to believe that."_

_Sam continued crying into Dean's chest as Dean rubbed his back._

_"Sam, look at me," Dean said as he pulled Sam away so Sam could look into his brother's eyes. He saw how much Dean felt for him – the sympathy and pity shining bright on his expression._

_"Sam, the thing that killed mom? That thing is part of who you are," Dean started, and Sam gulped in anxiety, nodding his understanding. "And that part of you, Sam, that part of you should be punished."_

_"-But Dean it's destroying_  me!"  _Sam cried._

_"Sam, you can't live like this. You can't be a monster-"_

_"I'm_  not _a monster, Dean!" Sam wailed softly, new sobs pushing themselves against his chest, making him nearly choke on his words._

_"Sam. You are. But that's okay. We'll figure it out."_

_"I'm not a monster, Dean, I'll prove it to you!" Sam yelled between sobs. Dean reached and grabbed his shoulders._

_"Shh, Sam, calm down. You_  are _a monster, and you deserve what's been happening to you. I don't know what Dad and I are going to do with you once this is over, but in the meantime, I need you to do me a favor."_

_Sam looked at his brother in pained desperation._

_"W-What?" Sam asked weakly, afraid. Dean gave Sam a watery smile, and looked at his watch._

_"It's seven-fifty right now. By eight pm, I need you to be on that table and ready to go with Rennolds again."_

…

Dean felt the bed move once, then twice, the mattress's shakes causing his head to jostle, as he was still sleeping on his stomach and, at some point, had lost his pillow. He wrote it off: this wasn't a new thing. Sam had always been a restless sleeper.

Nevertheless, Dean moved a lazy arm to find Sam on the other side of the bed. Occasionally when Sam was sleeping, he'd just grab a hold of Sam's arm, shoulder, or, if Sam was close enough, his chest, and keep his hand there as a reassuring weight. It'd settle him down during sleep most of the time.

Dean waved his hand around on the mattress behind him, searching for his brother's body, but he couldn't find it. He wondered about whether he should bother turning around. Groggy, he waited for any other sounds or bed-shakes coming from the other side of the bed.

A small sound emitted behind Dean, muffled by a pillow. Dean quirked his head up blearily, listening. The sound was followed by several faint high-pitched whimpers, which finally triggered Dean to lift up. He angled his head over to see Sam, lying on his stomach, face pressed against the pillow, on the edge of the bed.

"Sam? Sammy?" He whispered, rolling over to Sam in the dark. As he got closer, he noticed Sam was shivering, and Dean realized he'd had the entire comforter to himself.

"Sam? Hey-" Dean whispered as he threw the comforter over Sam and moved up closer to him to get him warm. He pulled Sam's shoulder back to turn him around and heard Sam gasp in fright.

"Dean… Dean!" Sam whimpered, his voice pitched in sleep. Dean felt Sam's hands grab at his shirt and lowered himself down, hovering over Sam. He squinted sleepy eyes to see if Sam's eyelids were open or not.

"Sam – Sammy it's just a dream- Shh-" Dean whispered back, placing his hand on Sam's face. He heard Sam choke on a sob and his eyes opened by a fraction.

"Dean don't make me get on the table, Dean,  _please_!" Sam keened, then broke into tears.

"Sam, what? Sammy, it's a dream, it's just a dream – there's no table," Dean replied softly into Sam's ear as he hunched over his little brother. Sam leaned into him further and Dean found himself wrapping his leg around Sam's trembling body.

"Hey-Hey – shh, it's okay, Sam."

"Dean please not the table - Don't make me – I can't-" Sam cried in hiccups, grasping at Dean's body with total desperate abandon.

"Sam there's no table, it's okay - no one's making you do anything," Dean whispered into Sam's ear as he started rocking Sam back and forth under his hold.

"I'm so… Sorry… Dean!" Sam almost yelled into Dean's shirt.

"Sam, shh, there's nothing to be sorry for. You're safe. You're here with me, okay? Nothing bad's gonna happen to you, okay? I got it covered – I got you covered, okay?" Dean kept whispering into Sam's ear as the two of them, wrapped by the comforter, tilted back and forth on the bed.

John turned around in bed slowly, looking over to see his sons in the other bed.

"Dean, what's going on?" John's sleepy voice boomed. Sam twitched in alarm and froze at the sound of their father, but Dean just held Sam tighter, a protective gesture of reassurance.

"It's cool, I got it, Dad. Sam just had a nightmare," Dean stage whispered.

"S'he okay?" John grunted sleepily.

Sam had started to settle down, the volume of his cries decreasing and muffled against Dean's chest.

"Yeah he's getting there," Dean whispered across the room again, trying not to jar Sam with any loud voices. Dean heard his father turn around in bed for a better position, and Dean turned back to push Sam further up his body so Sam's head could find the crook of his shoulder and neck. Sam followed Dean's motions, his breath hitching every now and then, but still calming down. As he came up closer to Dean's face, Dean absently wiped Sam's face free of tears with the bedspread. Sam, still distraught, let him while trying to control his breathing.

"Do you need your inhaler?" Dean whispered gently as Sam moved in. Sam coughed weakly.

"No I don't need my inhaler," Sam whispered back tiredly, his voice scratchy; throat sore. Sam lay face down against Dean's chest, with both of Dean's arms wrapped around him under the comforter. Sam sniffled a few times and a blanket of silence fell back over the room. Sam was quiet for awhile, both of them somewhat unwilling to go back to sleep.

"Sorry about that," Sam finally muttered.

"It's okay, Sam. It's always okay, you understand?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed, and Dean rubbed Sam's arm gently.

After a few minutes, Dean couldn't help but ask.

"What'd you dream about?"

Sam sniffed and considered.

"I dreamt about the first time Rennolds pretended to be you," Sam replied steadily. Dean reflexively tightened his hold around Sam and Sam returned the pressure, nearly falling into tears again as he managed to elaborate: "I hadn't…" Sam coughed and blinked a few times: "I hadn't known it was Rennolds at the time. I figured it out really soon. But the first time, I thought… I thought…"

"-That it really was me," Dean supplied Sam with the end of his sentence. Sam let out a breath.

"Yeah, I did," Sam whispered. He felt his body seize up, his face grew flush, and when Dean hugged him in his arms, Sam couldn't help but fall into silent tears again. "I really did think it was you – I'm so sorry," he wept.

"It's okay, Sam, shh," Dean whispered as he realized his own eyes were tearing up. "It's okay, Sam. You couldn't have known," Dean kept brushing Sam's hair back comfortingly. "You couldn't have known…" Dean repeated, his voice lulling Sam into quietude. Eventually, they both fell asleep. When John woke up in the morning, they were both tangled in the comforter, but Sam was still lying facedown against Dean's chest. And Dean's arms were still wrapped, albeit loosely, around Sam's back and shoulders. They were sleeping soundly, both deriving comfort and warmth from each other – even in their unconscious states.

That morning, John left his boys to sleep in and went to the police station to inquire about where to find the man that had almost jumped off the Fitzgerald cliff.

"I'm surprised the FBI's here for cliff jumpers."

"Well, the number of fatalities this month alone are pretty high; there are a few other cases we think may be linked to this one-"

"What, like a cult thing?"

"Hey, it's the age of the internet; weirdos can group up for anything nowadays."

"It's true, but you know we didn't find anything that strange, given each victim's circumstances."

"What circumstances were those?"

"Well, they all had prior backgrounds…" The police officer said meaningfully. John squinted his eyes.

"I'm afraid I'm not understanding you."

"All the jumpers in the past month or two – they've all, uh, been there… Before."

"At the Fitzgerald cliff? They frequented the place?" John nodded his approval of this statement, but was still confused about why the officer was being so cryptic.

"No, sir, they'd all been in and out of psychiatric institutes – treatments for depression and the like."

"Oh, I see. Well, nonetheless, it doesn't hurt to double-check to see if they match up with the other cases I'm following."

"Not at all," the officer replied, satisfied. His secretary walked up and handed him a folder. "Thanks Tracy," he murmured, and handed the file to John, opening it to the top, "So here's the incidence report on top, and then further in you've got the coroner's reports and whatnot on the recovered bodies. Anything else?"

"No you've been great. Thank you Officer."

"Yep. Have a good day," the man responded, happy to help.

John turned around and, at a brisk pace, walked out of the police station. He couldn't stand police stations.

…

One hour later, John was heading back to the motel after having picked up a dozen donuts from the local diner. He'd just finished up interviewing the would-be victim of the Fitzgerald Cliff, had a good Samaritan not pulled him back from the edge.

John mulled over the interview, wondering if they were actually dealing with a ghost or poltergeist after all. The man he interviewed, Greg Crawford, ex-army, hadn't seen or felt anything supernatural before he was about to jump; nor had he felt possessed or under a spell. It ruled out several of John's likeliest options, which John wasn't pleased about. The only thing Greg could say was that he didn't feel in control of his memories.

John pressed him on elaborating further, but Greg shut down. They were in a psychiatric facility and Greg refused to explain any further.

"I want to help you, I really do. But I don't want to talk about it in here. I don't want to sound crazy; I want to get out of here as soon as possible, you know?" Greg had whispered, fixing John with a sincere expression of regret. John nodded grimly in response.

"I understand," he replied, even though he didn't, and stood up and shook Greg's hand.

John was pulling into the motel parking lot just as the thought occurred to him: Greg Crawford seemed perfectly rational and balanced. He didn't even seem depressed.

So, if Greg felt like his memories were out of control that day out on the cliff, what memories was he experiencing – were they fake or real? Did those memories cause him to jump somehow?

John resolved to go back to see Greg the next day, thinking he'd get to the bottom of this  _and_  maybe help Greg get out of the psych ward for at least a brief spell.

John bit his lip as he pulled into a space in from of the motel room. Did he know of a monster that messed with your memories? Djinns, maybe, but this wasn't really their M.O.

 _Might have to call Bobby in on this one_ , John thought, slightly bitter. He decided he'd hold off until he'd completed a few more interviews. Hell, maybe even Dean would have a good idea – John couldn't help but acknowledge that it felt good having him by his side again. And if the kid was positive Sam was getting better, he trusted him on that front.

John turned the ignition off and got out of the car, balancing the donuts perfectly in his right hand. Heading inside, he found the boys sitting next to each other on the bed, both reading their respective books silently, the television off.

 _When did Dean start reading_? John wondered.


	18. March 3rd, 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on the topic of suicide.

Gusts of wind howled through the forest that came before the clearing which dropping off suddenly – about five stories down - to the jagged rocks below and the brutal, freezing waves that washed over them. It was a violent view, one that offered no sense of peace: a jump would mean becoming a rag doll under nature's force. Willing to be torn apart by the elements, Sam would hope the water could destroy him so thoroughly he could finally be clean. He'd be dead, but at least he'd be clean.

Sam stood stock still, staring down. The wind blew his hair around his face, but Sam barely blinked. Absorbed in the view and caught on a loop of flashing memories inside his head. Sam was willing to witness this, just as the spirit intended him to.

Sam was transported back to December in the grocery store. Rennold's flashing grin at him and Dean's seemingly overprotective reaction at the time.

The day Sam woke up, drowsy, in the kitchen, with Rennolds' sympathetic face staring at him as he began to explain to Sam about the tests.

Sam's memories of the tests themselves: lying on the table in agony as Rennolds would keep going. In the beginning, at the end of a test, Rennolds would turn sweet. He'd gently roll Sam over onto his side, pull a blanket over him, and sit down. He'd stroke Sam's hair as he made false reassuring promises about Dean and his father – that this was all temporary. Sam would calm down from the pain and fear.

Then the day came when he had been forced. Sam had realized, then, that this was more torture than treatment; more sinister than unethical research.

The day Rennolds pretended to be Dean and Sam had believed him.

The suffering that had followed was unimaginable. Rennolds had lost any incentive to feign interest in Sam's well-being. He'd leave Sam alone after every, 'session,' and, if Sam hadn't recovered before dinner, he'd have to roll over, fall onto the floor, and rest there in silence so Rennolds could set the table.

The one time Sam hadn't moved, Rennolds had beaten him. Sam had woken up freezing on the floor hours later in the darkness of the dining room.

And then the end of the month, when he had done everything he'd wanted to with Sam, he had driven them to a ram shackled house in the woods somewhere. Sam was nearly catatonic, willing to accept Rennolds' directives, whatever they were. The man had burnt Sam's clothes awhile ago to eliminate evidence. He had saved a few items of Sams' to hold on to for insurance just in case Sam actually did survive somehow.

He locked Sam in the basement, having promised a much more pleasant interior and got to work on the hex bag.

And it was then that he'd pretended to be Dean. It was his best performance to date and Sam was psychologically compromised: he always trusted Dean, even if it was Rennolds all along. He refused to become distrusting of Dean's visage.

Rennolds had walked downstairs slowly, sadly, pretending to be a forlorn version of Sam's hero. Dean had told Sam that Rennolds had been right all along. That Dean and John wanted nothing to do with Sam any more. Not now that they knew.

Rennolds hid the hex bag as he performed his Dean impression with impeccable precision. He had done it to get Sam to give up. He wanted Sam to  _let_  the hex bag kill him. After all, Sam was a hunter: if he had been firing on all four cylinders, he would probably be able to find the hex bag and stop it from working. Plus, Rennolds just wanted Sam broken. He didn't know what it was, but the contempt he felt for the boy – the jealousy, even – ate at Rennolds. Sam was powerful – more powerful than he'd ever be, and that wasn't fair. It wasn't  _right_.

Rennolds' plan worked. After, 'Dean,' had left Sam and locked the basement, Rennolds drove away. Sam began to feel cold and recognized the magic at work, but he hadn't cared.

Sam's memory flashed back to Dean's cold, rigid voice in the basement. No comfort, no love or affection. Rather, contempt and disgust laced through Dean's words.

"Sam it's been taking us – Dad and I – awhile to figure things out. Rennolds had you for a month and, Sammy, you did real good-"

"Thanks, Dean," Sam had whispered, staring up at his brother with rapt attention. He was scared. More scared than he'd ever been in his life. Something in his heart knew that Dean was about to tell Sam that he was worthless; trash – which needed to be thrown out.

And, essentially, that was what Dean had said.

"Look, Sam, we're not going to hunt, you, man, calm down," Dean had said as he observed Sam's anxiety, "But you can't be with us – you can't help us hunt. You're something we don't want known – we're pretty disgusted you've even been in our family for so long - when we never knew what you were. But, Sammy," and at the nickname, tears had rolled freely down Sam's cheeks, "Sammy, we know now. We can't handle you," Dean finished, then looked away. He grunted a small laugh: "You're kind of lucky Dad's not trying to kill you right now…"

Sam, crying on the mattress, heard Dean say, "Sorry man," disingenuously, and then leave. He'd walked back upstairs with easy thumps and he had simply shut the door with a firm click.

And then Dean had come to save him, but for real this time, and Sam was too strung out to believe or notice. Sam had no idea if Rennolds had done this deliberately, but in a lot of ways he had brainwashed Sam – and given him so many mixed messages and signals by pretending to be his father, his brother, his friendly teacher, a fellow hunter, a witch, and so much more…

He had taxed Sam's last reserves until Sam had no choice but to follow the truth that was set to him. That time in the hospital when Sam was just blindly willing to accept Dean when he'd told him he was real. He needed Dean to take care of him like that at the time, but Sam was ashamed about it later. Dean didn't  _get_  to do that for him anymore, now; not after all the torture Dean had made Sam endure with Rennolds.

Whether it was real Dean or not, it was how Sam had felt about it that mattered. He'd woken up bitter, angry, spewing taunts and insults at Dean. He was a bad kid and he was mad at Dean. So Sam hated himself – he hated Dean, but in the same breath Sam knew he needed Dean. Sam had always done as he was told when Rennolds turned into Dean. He hated that Dean – or the memory of Dean - had that power over him, but he refused to let it go. Sam only ever took comfort from his brother, and yet the trust between them had been shattered by Rennolds.

Coming to terms with it seemed impossible.

At the cliff's edge, Sam was somehow allowed to see what had happened when Dean had spoken to Charlotte after his outburst:

"Sam is a very angry young man. I want to recommend he be placed in a program for kids that're going through similar problems," Charlotte explained sharply, having shut down Dean's initial anger on Sam's behalf by pointing out that it had been  _Sam_  that had just destroyed her office in a rampage. "Just visit the psychiatrist, Doctor Elliot, and I bet you'll think it's a good idea," she said with a self-satisfied smile, confident she was making the right referral. Dean took the contact information she'd written out for him on a pad of paper and looked around hesitantly. He stared up at her and his voice was weak.

"-But can't you just continue working with him like this? I mean it's only the first meeting. He'll warm up to you…" Dean trailed off as he noticed Charlotte's adamantly shaking head.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but that behavior was not acceptable in my office. You're lucky I'm not charging you for the damage," she said reproachfully. Dean nodded solemnly and looked down at the piece of paper.

"Okay…" Dean had murmured, downcast. "Thanks, I guess," he replied, gesturing with the information she'd written for him, and he walked out of the house to meet his little tyrant of a brother in the passenger seat.

And Sam was there, fuming, that the woman had had the audacity to suggest that if he couldn't be the walled-off Sam he is now, and that it was impossible to go back to being Dean's sweetheart little brother, then that left… Nothing. Death.

Charlotte had inadvertently proposed that there was no path by which to travel. No future.

Sam had gone into Elliot's rehab with this concept hanging over his head and quickly realized that it was true. He couldn't be rid of feeling evil, feeling hatred and bitterness, and he couldn't go back to anything he was in the past. He'd never get out of the hospital: he'd always be considered, 'sick.' There was nothing to do except that one thing.

So, Sam had stolen the scissors from the nurse's desk and he had started to try. He was completely out of options. And, because of Rennolds and the warped tricks he'd played on Sam's mind, Sam knew suicide would make his brother and father proud – if they'd known he was part demon – murderer – they'd be proud of Sam for doing this.

But then, back in the rehab, he'd failed to complete.

Found in the bathroom of his dorm, bloody and pale, Sam was treated and put to bed after Elliot had tried to talk to him.

And that was when Sam had finally given up. He was exhausted. He felt like a zombie: his energy had been entirely spent on trying to kill himself and now that he'd been defeated even on that goal, there was nothing for Sam to do except coast… Keep living without much life – as if the future didn't exist.

Because every day that he lived was a day where he shouldn't have been living. So he figured maybe he'd just pretend he was dead. Maybe he could just live in his head until fate offered him the next round of opportunity to, 'jump,' for a truer, more effective means to die.

Dean had come to get him that day at the rehab. Dean didn't know the truth, so every time he gave himself to Sam to make him feel better; every time he instinctively protected Sam, like from the sound of a janitor busting a door open; each and every time, it crushed Sam to know he was doing it only because Dean simply didn't know the truth.

But Dean had taken him out of there. They left the god awful rehab and Sam didn't really have it in him to try again. He would have… He really would have, but he found it easier to just do as he was told. To go along with whatever Dean had wanted to do – at least it didn't make Dean feel like punching trees anymore.

Sam tried to sleep a lot. It was the closest thing he could get to death and so he kept trying to get there. Every time he woke up, he felt regret for the day he'd failed in the rehab.

But now, though, he was standing at the precipice of suicide yet again. Fate was offering him the next round of opportunity for a true, more effective means to die. Sam was going to take it.

Looking down, Sam knew it was intimidating – the ocean was crashing against the cliff side fiercely. The sky was overcast; the world's colors were muted to grayscale. The scape wasn't much different, though, to how Sam perceived things now anyway.

He looked over his shoulder absently. Behind him in the clearing, his father was fallen against a tree in the distance.

And Dean, well, Sam wasn't sure where Dean was, which was fine with Sam.

Dean and John had begun the act of invoking the spirit. It was a shot in the dark, as they were hoping against hope that an incantation Dean had found would work. In the end, they figured it was worth a try.

The two of them had made Sam stay in the car again, so Sam did. He tried to sleep; tried to go on ignoring life and slip into unconsciousness. Sam hoping against his  _own_  hopes that nothing would be there. Sometimes he'd get nightmares, though. And those nightmares were always worse than what he knew death would have in store for him. He could handle nothingness; he couldn't handle consistent nightmares. Sometimes they'd get so bad, Sam would wake up and think about breaking his promise to Dean. Just blow his head off in the middle of the motel room using one of their guns.

Luckily, Sam had fallen into nothingness until, out of nowhere, Sam woke up – wide awake and alert. He felt more than heard a call to him.

A call that promised relief and an end.

Sam had gotten out of the car and walked out to the Fitzgerald cliff. As if in a trance, he made his way to the edge, passing by his father (and presumably, his brother). He barely noticed they were there – or that they had all too successfully beckoned the spirit out into the open.

And with all its strength, the spirit had proceeded to mangle and manipulate Sam's memories as he drifted closer and closer to the edge.

Sam couldn't see Dean from where he stood, but it didn't matter. He figured it'd probably be too hard and too dramatic to say goodbye to him anyway.

Right now, all Sam realized was that one step forward would be peace. It'd mean he could leave this world without having done anything evil. He would die and his life would be unblemished – he'd kill himself – and that would be a good thing, because he knew he was fated to do evil things.

Sam stopped looking down and instead looked out at the horizon. When he jumped, Sam decided to himself that he'd only stare straight in this direction. This direction was serene: just the grey skies meeting the deep, midnight blue waters.

This step would be the easiest thing he'd ever done, Sam realized, giving a long sigh of relief. He took a small breath, heard a thumping sound behind him of sticks and grass being trampled, and ignored it. Sam paid attention to his decision, getting ready and set.

Sam stepped forward once as he stared out to the sea. He opened his arms, ready to fly, and took the small jump. He had jumped because he wanted to keep his body oriented to the horizon – so he'd be able to stare at it as he fell all the way down.

"SAM!" Dean shouted in a strangled voice of grief just as Dean snagged Sam's arm. Sam jerked and Dean's hold made him smack against the cliff wall. The impact gashed a cut across his forehead and temple.

A little dazed, Sam didn't respond to his brother's grip. He'd only vaguely heard Dean shout his name before.

"Sam, GET UP!" Dean shouted, livid, as he noticed that Sam wasn't automatically trying to scale up the cliff side with Dean's help.

"I'm not letting you go, Sam, so get up here now," Dean yelled threateningly. Sam looked up at Dean tiredly. Blood dripped into his eyes as he grimaced his distaste for Dean's plan of action. Dean was being dramatic and Sam just wanted to be let go.

"Dean, let me go!" Sam called.

"No!" Dean shouted, squeezing Sam's arm so tight, Sam gasped. "You get up or we stay here forever," Dean promised viciously. Sam rolled his eyes as he dangled from Dean's arm.

"You can't last forever, Dean. And I'm not climbing up," Sam warned.

Sam thought about how it was truly unfortunate Dean had done this – tried this last minute save – because when Sam would go back to falling, he would no longer be able to watch the horizon like he wanted to. He'd have to look at the sky or, even worse, keep his brother in sight as he fell to the jagged rocks below.

"All right, Sam," Dean grunted as he thought of what to do.

Sam felt Dean's grip around his forearm get impossibly tighter. And then it moved. Sam looked up, alarmed, to see that Dean was bracing himself above him.

"Dean! No!" Sam screamed, suddenly scared. He realized Dean was going to pull him up. But Sam didn't want him to.

"Dean, NO! I'm going to fight you! Don't pull me u-AH!" Sam shouted frantically as his whole body got hoisted up a few inches. He felt two hands around his arm, now, and continued trying to fight Dean's iron grip.

"Dean! Please!" Sam screeched, "I promise you this is better! Just let me go!" Sam cried, realizing that he was failing to get out of Dean's clutches as his body scraped up again by a few inches.

"C'MON baby!" Sam heard Dean shout, adrenaline running through him as he huffed to pull Sam's writhing body up further – Sam wasn't sure if he was talking to him or not, but two seconds later, Sam's head was near the very edge of the cliff.

Bleeding and sobbing with fear, Sam started screaming at his brother.

"Dean! Stop it! Let me die, please! Let me go! I'm EVIL – if you knew, Dean, you'd know that I'm doing the right thing I'M DOING THE RIGHT THING!"

Dean ignored Sam, grunting his last pull and Sam's torso crossed over the edge.

"Dean!" Sam shrieked in tears, "NO! No! Please!" He cried, barely able to speak as Dean grabbed the waistband of his jeans and pulled him up all the way back onto land.

Sam, devastated, scrambled back away from Dean on the ground as Dean tried to crawl towards him.

"Stay away from me!" Sam yelled, terrified and livid at the same time. Dean stopped approaching Sam and sat back on his haunches, piercing Sam with his eyes.

"Sammy," Dean said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle after his shouts to Sam as he'd been dangling on the cliff. "… What're you keeping from me? Why do you think you're evil?"

Sam shook his head, unable to rip his gaze away from Dean's.

"You don't need to know! You just need to let me GO!" Sam yelled, and, with that, tried to get back up to run away.

He'd run to another section of the cliff and jump there before Dean could get to him. Seemed like as good a plan as any. The ocean was  _right there_. The railings were nothing; it was so easy – death was at his fingertips and all Sam wanted was to  _die_.

Tried as he did, Dean's reflexes were faster, and Sam went down hard when Dean clobbered him back onto the ground.

Getting the wind knocked out of anyone was rough, but Sam had asthma and he'd been sobbing for awhile now. He gasped for air as his face was pressed against the dry cold dirt. He felt his brother murmur, "Sorry, Sammy," over him and suddenly Sam found himself lying on his side.

Dean slipped his hands under Sam's jacket and over his back, rubbing on both sides back and forth to generate warmth and whispering reassurances as he watched Sam try to regain his senses.

"C'mon, Sam, c'mon back to me," he hummed.

Sam coughed, his breathing getting back to normal, and tears started flowing again as he felt his brother's hands comforting him even here, now, after trying to kill himself again.

"Dean," Sam was going to try to promise Dean that he didn't have to know the truth. That he should just trust Sam that he needed to die. But Sam realized Dean wouldn't trust him. Dean would have to hear and know before he'd ever let Sam kill himself. Sam had, all along, been trying to spare himself. His worst nightmare was the day Dean had abandoned him for dead. That had been Rennolds at the time, but Sam believed it was the truth – the truth of how Dean would react once he found out. History has a way of repeating itself, Sam knew. And this was one of those times.

Now, Sam realized that he wanted to die more than he wanted to hide what he was from Dean. If Dean  _needed_ to know why Sam needed to die, Sam would tell him. Dean obviously needed Sam's memory marred before he'd ever let Sam jump. And Sam just wanted to jump…

"Sammy-?" Dean whispered, leaning over him.

Sam's eyes squeezed shut, then opened.

"Sammy ya gonna tell me?" Dean asked, still rubbing Sam's back, his hand on Sam's heart.

Sam started crying again, but nodded. He just wanted to die; he didn't want to hear Dean's rejection again before doing it. But Dean wouldn't let him go through with it otherwise.

"Yeah," Sam whispered loud enough for Dean to hear. At that, Dean picked Sam up from the ground and had him in his lap. Sam felt like he was getting one last meaningful gesture of affection from his hero – his big brother that meant the world to him. He took advantage of it, curling into Dean and hugging him as tightly as possible. Dean returned the embrace with equal measure, his own adoration for Sam palpable.

After a few minutes, Dean turned his head and whispered into Sam's ear.

"C'mon sweetie," Dean said, never having used the term on Sam until now. Sam almost started crying, though, again; he liked the endearment – it was just that it was like one final punch in the gut before it'd all be stripped away from him. Sam would be left alone, numb, and without reason not to jump. And then, thank god, he was going to jump.

"Ya gonna tell me?" Dean pushed.

Sam nodded and, sniffing, raised his head into Dean's ear. His grip on Dean got desperately tighter and Dean returned the pressure appropriately.

"Before Mom died, the demon was in my nursery," Sam whispered as silent tears fell down his cheeks.

Dean looked at Sam, holding him up against him and in his lap.

"Okay…" Dean prompted slowly. He used his sleeve to wipe Sam's tears and started rocking them back and forth a little bit as Sam continued, trembling.

"And," Sam trailed off, his heart thumping a mile a minute, never more frightened in his life. He swallowed, trying to settle his breathing, and follow the rhythm of their rocking. Dean patiently waited, mumbling small shushes when it seemed like Sam's breathes were going to break into sobs. Barely keeping himself together, Sam finally turned into Dean's ear again.

"The demon. The demon that killed mom. It had slit its wrist and poured its blood into my mouth," Sam gasped out, and broke down into sobs again, paradoxically hiding under Dean as a means to hide  _from_  Dean.

Sam expected his brother to be still for a second, then dutifully detach Sam and keep him away from him as he thought about the implications. Then he'd gesture to the cliff. Sam would nod solemnly and take the plunge willingly.

Sam didn't expect Dean to just keep rocking back and forth.

"Are you… Okay?" Dean asked.

Sam, confused, stuttered his reply.

"W-What? W-With what?"

"You. I don't understand why you're upset Sammy…" Dean whispered, then pulled Sam away to look at his face.

Sam, struck dumb, stared into his brother's concerned eyes as he wiped his face again. He stroked Sam's hair, then laid his hands around Sam's face, framing it; his thumb softly wiping Sam's cheeks. Sam just looked up at him hesitantly, scared, and he gulped under Dean's close scrutiny.

"Sammy, I don't care if you have demon blood in you. Is that what we're talking about?"

Sam nodded his head hazily, stunned. Dean sighed sadly, but his voice was as light and simple as his message.

"Sammy, this doesn't make you evil. Or fated for evil…"

"But-" Sam started, his voice thick. He was confused about everything Rennolds had said; everything Rennolds-as-Dean had said. His memories started to jar and mash and mesh with one another, but it got all got cut off suddenly as he felt Dean pull him into another hug. Enveloped by Dean's body, Sam couldn't believe what was happening.

"I- I thought you'd want me dead," Sam said, on the verge of tears. Dean huddled Sam closer against him. On the ground, he moved into a cross-legged position with Sam inside.

"No, Never, Sammy…" Dean murmured, and Sam was certain he'd detected a quiver in his words. Sure enough, Sam heard Dean sniff and rearrange his hold on him.

"You're still my baby brother, Sam. You're not evil. I know you inside and out; you're my responsi-" Dean stopped, thinking, "-you're  _mine_ , Sam. I still love you. I'll always love you," Dean's voice shook as he spoke.

His words made Sam start to cry again. A dam inside his heart had broken as Sam started to truly rebuild the trust that Dean was saying would  _always_  be there. Dean would never leave Sam. Dean would make sure Sam would never be evil.

Relief flooded through Sam; it was a downpour of draining angst and fear.

All along Dean would've been there to  _tell_   _this_  to Sam, but all along Sam had been too confused and disturbed to trust Dean to say this.

"Dean," Sam sobbed, wrapping his arms tight around Dean's neck, "Dean I love you too," Sam cried.

The two of them remained there, on the cold dirt ground, as the wind howled and circled around them. Dean kissed Sam on the cheek as his little brother continued to let everything out in sobs and tears, clutching onto Dean, needing his brother there to help him feel the right way. To feel like he was still important and valuable and  _good_. As every moment passed, Sam was mending; his shame and regrets so easily dashed and dismissed by Dean, all Sam could do was feel his brother's true intentions.

Dean wanted him to feel like the loved kid brother he always was and always would be in his eyes.

It was going to take a little longer, but right now, Sam's belief was sparked with that… And Sam knew that if there was anything his big brother was good at, it was turning a spark into fire.

 


	19. Epilogue

Nothing is, 'happily ever after.' Not for the Winchesters.

Not when the brothers released their hold on each other at the edge of the cliff.

Not when they helped their concussed father up from the cold ground.

Not when Dean took the driver's seat and drove them home.

Not when the three of them, exhausted and injured, tended wounds with careful, practiced hands.

Not when Sam asked Dean to tell their father and Dean nodded.

Not when Sam fell to tears waiting for the somber patriarch to abandon him in the silent wake of his older brother's words.

Not when Sam's family wrapped their arms around him, expressing a love that marked the boy far more than any demon could.

Not when they whispered promises; softly explaining that Sam only ever needed to breathe for them.

Not when the tears dried and not when Sam could sleep unburdened.

Not when the weight of the secret, which had twice nearly cost their youngest his life, had finally been placed upon the strength of their family.

Nothing is, "happily ever after." Not for any one of them. Not for the Winchesters.

But the Winchesters never asked for, 'happily ever after.'

They didn't need one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Please please comment/review if you can spare the time. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!


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